



PRESENTED BY 



\S^Oa-, 



■k. 



MASKS 

BY 

GEORGE MIDDLETON 



AND OTHER 
ONE-ACT PLAYS 




SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th St., New York 



MRS. PARTRIDGE PRESENTS 

Comedy in 3 acts. By Mary Kennedy and Euth Ilaw- 
thorne. 6 males, 6 females. Modern costumes. 2 interiors. 
Plays 2 14 hours. 

The characters, scenes and situations are thoroughly up-to- 
date in this altogether delightful American comedy. The heroine 
is a woman of tremendous energy, who manages a business — as 
ehe manages everything — with great success, and at home pre- 
sides over the destinies of a growing son and daughter. Her 
struggle to give the children the opportunities she herself had 
missed, and the children's ultimate revolt against her well-meant 
management — that is the basis of the plot. The son who is cast 
for the part of artist and the daughter who is to go on the stage 
offer numerous opportunities for the development of the comic 
possibilities in the theme. 

The play is one of the most delightful, yet thought-provoking 
American comedies of recent years, and is warmly recommended 
to all amateur groups, (Eoyalty ou application.) Price, 75 Cer.tsc 



IN THE NEXT ROOM 

Melodrama in 3 acts. By Eleanor Eobson and Harriet 
Pord. 8 males, 3 females. 2 interiors. Modern costumes. 
Plays 214 hours. 

"Philip Vantine has bought a rare copy of an original Boulei 
cabinet and ordered it shipped to his New York home from Paris, 
When it arrives it is found to be the original itself, the pos- 
session of which is desired by many strange people. Before tho 
mystery concerned with the cabinet's shipment can be cleared 
up, two persons meet mysterious death fooling with it and tha 
happiness of many otherwise happy actors is threatened" (Burns 
Mantle). A first-rate mystery play, comprising all the elements 
of suspense, curiosity, comedy and drama. "In the Next Room" 
is quite easy to stage. It can be unreservedly recommended to 
high schools and coUegeSi (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) 

Price, 75 Cents. 



SAMUEL FEENOH, 25 West 45th Street, New York CTity 
New and Explicit SescriptlTe Catalogue Mailed Fre« on Sequest 



i- 



MASKS ^ 

With 



JIM'S BEAST, TIDES, AMONG THE LIONS, 
THE REASON, THE HOUSE 

One-Act Plays of Contemporary Life 
BY 

GEORGE MIDDLETON 

"We all wear many masks" 



Copyright, 1920, by George Middletoh 



ALL^ RIGHTS RESERVED 

CAUTION. — Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that 
"Masks," "Jim's Beast," "Tides," "Among the Lions," "The 
Reason," and "The House," being fully protected under the 
copyright laws of the United States of Americaj the British 
Empire, including the Dominion of Canada, and the other 
countries of the Copyright Union, is subject to a royalty, and 
anyone presenting the play without the consent of the owner 
or his authorized agents will be liable to the penalties of the law 
provided. Applications for the professional and amateur acting 
rights must be made to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, 
New York, N. Y- 



New York 
SAMUEL FRENCH 

PHBLISHEB 

25 WEST 45th STREET 



London 

SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. 

26 Southampton Street 

STRAND 



MASKS ^C-?,^'^WV* 

Jim's Beast, Tides, Among the Lions, The Reason, 
The House 

One- Act Plays of Contemporary Life 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



Especial notice should be taken that the possession of 
this book without a valid contract for production first 
having been obtained from the publisher, confers no 
right or license to professionals or amateurs to produce 
the play publicly or in private for gain or charity. 

In their present form these plays are dedicated to the 
reading public only, and no performance, representation, 
production, recitation, or public reading, or radio broad- 
casting may be given except by special arrangement with 
Samuel French, 25 West 4Sth Street, New York. 

These plays may be presented by amateurs upon pay- 
ment of a royalty of Ten Dollars per performance, pay- 
able to Samuel French, 25 West 45th Street, New York, 
one week before the date when the play is given. 

Professional royalty quoted on application to Samuel 
French, 25 West 45th Street, New York, N. Y. 

Whenever the play is produced the following notice 
must appear on all programs, printing and advertising 
for the play : "Produced by special arrangement with 
Samuel French of New York." 

Attention is called to the penalty provided by law for 
any infringement of the author's rights, as follows: 

"Section 4966: — Any person publicly performing or 
representing any dramatic or musical composition* for 
which copyright has been obtained, without the consent 
of the proprietor of said dramatic or musical composi- 
tion, or his heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages 
thereof, such damages, in all cases to be assessed at 
such sum, not less than one hundred dollars for the first 
and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance, as 
to the court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful 
performance and representation be wilful and for profit, 
such person or persons shall be guilty of a misdemeanor, 
and upon conviction shall be imprisoned for a period not 
exceeding one year."— U. S. Revised Statutes: Title 60, 
Chap. 3. gipf 

PUBilSMER 

APR 16 77 . ; 



GARDNER and MARICE 

SOUVENIR OF HAPPY DAYS IN THE FOREST 
WHERE MUCH OF THIS WAS WRITTEN 



In the prefaces to my five previous volumes I have 
sufficiently explained my reason for play publication — 
not as a substitute for production but as an alternative 
sometimes compelled by the exigencies of a highly com- 
mercialized theater. Further, I have stated in other 
places why I have so frequently turned to the one- 
act form. 

The present volume is dedicated to no thesis, though 
perhaps the title may offer some hint of the underlying 
motive which has prompted this series. 

G. M. 

December 23, 1919. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface v 

Masks 3 

Jim's Beast 67 

Tides .113 

Among the Lions 149 

The Reason 181 

The House 211 



MASKS 



THE PEOPLE 



Grant Williams, a dramatist. 
Jerry, his wife. 

Tom Robinson, a great painter. 
Marie Case, formerly Tom's wife. 



Characters in 
his unproduced 
drama " The 
Lonely Way." 



SCENE 

In the Williams' flat, New York City, rfter the 
second performance of Grant Williams' first great 
success. The Sand Bar, produced at the National 
Theater. 



MASKS * 

^ M iHE doorway from the public stairs opens im- 
m mediately upon the living-room without the 

•^ intervening privacy of a small hallway. The 

room was, no doubt, more formally pretentious in the 
early days of the Williams' marriage; but the 
relics of that time — some rigid mahogany chairs 
and stray pieces of staid furniture — have been ruth- 
lessly pushed against the walls, so that one perceives a 
" parlor " transformed into a miscellaneous room upon 
which the flat's overflow has gradually crept. And 
with this has come Grant Williams' plain wooden 
work-table, bearing now a writer's accessories, a desk 
lamp, and a mass of manuscripts ; one of which is his 
unproduced drama. The Lonely Way^ bound in 
the conventional blue linen cover. His well-worn 
typewriter is perched on the end of the table, in easy 
reach of his work-chair with its sofa cushions crushed 
and shaped to his form. Another chair is near by, so 
that it also may catch the flood of light which comes 
from the conventional electric bunch-light above. There 
is a small black kerosene heater to be used in those 
emergencies of temperature which landlords create. 
Not far from it, a child's collapsible go-cart is propped. 
On the walls, above some over-flowing bookshelves, are 

* Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. 



4 MASKS 

several tastefully selected etchings. A window in back, 
which hides an airshaftj is partly concealed by heavy 
curtains that hang tired and limp. There is another 
doorway, directly opposite the entrance, which leads 
to the other rooms of a characteristically compressed 
city flat. 

Yet the room is not forbidding : it merely suggests 
forced economies that have not quite fringed poverty: 
continual adaptation, as it were, to the financial con- 
tingencies of a marriage that has just managed to make 
both ends meet. 

When the curtain rises Jerry Williams is seated 
in the cozy chair reading a number of newspaper clip- 
pings. 

Jerry is an attractive woman in her thirties. Ex- 
ternally, there is nothing particularly striking about 
her: if there be such a thing as an average wife Jerry 
personifies it. She has loved her husband and kept 
house for him without a spoken protest; for she has 
had no advanced ideas or theories. Yet she has had 
her fears and little concealments and dreams — like any 
married woman. She has been sustained through the 
ten years of hard sledding by the belief in her hus- 
band's ultimate financial success. And as she reads the 
criticisms of his play. The Sand Bar, produced the 
night before, she realizes it has come at last. She is 
now completely happy and calm in the thought of her 
rewards. 

She looks at the cheap watch lying on the desk and 
indicates it is late. She closes the window, walks over 
to the doorway and looks in, apparently to see if the 



MASKS 5 

child is still asleep. Then she closes the door and 
stands there, with just a suspicion of impatience. 

Several minutes pass. Then she gives a little cry of 
joy as she hears the key turn in the lock and she sees 
the hall door open slowly — admitting her husband. 

Grant Williams is a more striking personality than 
his wife; about forty, with a tinge of iron gray on his 
temples, he has a strong virile face not ivithout traces of 
idealism. His whole appearance is normal and devoid 
of any conscious affectation of dress. But a very close 
inspection might reveal that his suit, though carefully 
pressed, is well worn — as is the overcoat which covers 
it. Grant happens to be a man of cultivation and 
breeding, with a spark of genius, who has strayed into 
strange pastures. At present there lurks an unexpected 
depression back of his mood; perhaps it is only the 
normal reaction which conies to every artist when suc- 
cess is won and the critical sense within mocks the 
achievement so beneath the dream. Perhaps with 
Grant Williams it is something else. 

Jerry 
Oh, Grant, I thought you'd never come home. 

Grant 
Best, the house manager, detained me. 

Jerry 
{Detecting his mood) 
There's nothing the matter with the play? 



6 MASKS 

Grant 

Nothing; except it's an enormous success. (She 
smiles again j and he wants to keep her smiling.) We 
were sold out to-night. The second night! Think of 
that! I had to stand myself. 

Jerry 
Well, I don't see why you should be blue about it. 
There were always plenty of empty seats at your other 
plays. I knew The Sand Bar couldn't fail. 

Grant 

{Throwing coat carelessly over chair) 
You felt the same about the others. 

Jerry 
{Trying to cheer him) 
They didn't fail — artistically. 

Grant 

You mean nobody came to see them — except on 

passes. But The Sand Bar! That's different! 

{With a tinge of sarcasm throughout.) You ought 

to have seen the way the mob at the National ate it up. 



Jerry 
I wanted to go but I couldn't ask Mrs. Hale to 
take care of the baby again. Besides, I was anxious to 
read all the notices over quietly by myself and . . . 



MASKS 7 

Grant 

{Picking them up and glancing through them) 
Great, aren't they ? Not a " roast " among them. 

Jerry 
Not one. I couldn't find Arthur Black's review : he 
was always so kind to your other plays, too. 

Grant 
{Evasively) 
I forgot to bring In the Gazette. Best says he never 
saw such " money " notices. ( Glances at one.) Doran 
outdid himself. {Reading the critic s notice with a 
touch of theatrical exaggeration.) " The perception of 
human nature evinced by Grant Williams in his pro- 
foundly moving drama The Sand Bar places him in 
the front rank of American dramatists ! " 

Jerry 
Just where you belong. 

Grant 

{Skipping) 
" His hero, Tom Robinson, the artist, who deliber- 
ately deserts his highest ideals because his wife's happi- 
ness is of more value than his own egoistic self- 
expression, is a new angle on the much abused artistic 
temperament." {With a wise smile.) That "twist " 
seems to have got them. {Reading) " Marie, his wife, 
who is willing to risk her honor to test his love and 
thus awaken him to a sense of his human responsibility, 



8 MASKS 

is a character which will appeal to every married 
woman." 

Jerry 
{She nods in approval, without his seeing her) 
But read the last paragraph, dear. 

Grant 
" In fact, all the characters are true to themselves, 
never once being bent lay the playwright for dramatic 
effect out of the inevitable and resistless momentum of 
their individual psychologies." And Doran used to 
report prizefights ! 

Jerry 
I hope he doesn't go back to it. He writes beauti- 
fully. 

Grant 

By the way, I haven't told you the crowning achieve- 
ment of my ten years of writing. Trebaro — the great 
Trebaro who would never even read my plays before 
— asked me in the lobby to-night to write him a curtain 
raiser ! 

Jerry 
{Happily) 
That's splendid! 

Grant 

I've promised to get it done in ten days. His new 
play is going to run short. He's got to have something 
to lengthen the evening. 



MASKS 9 

Jerry 
Have you an idea? 

Grant 
No; not yet. But he doesn't like anything with 
ideas in it. 

Jerry 
(As she sees him go to his typewriter to remove cover) 
But, dear, you're not going to begin it to-night! 
{Significantly stopping him.) To-night belongs to me 
— not to your work. {Nestling close beside him.) 
Dearest. . . . 

Grant 
All right, Jerry. I've only got a few paragraphs of 
personal stuff to bang off. Then I'll be with you. The 
Times wants it for a Sunday story — with my photo. 
{As her face brightens again.) You see, Mrs. Grant 
Williams, your husband is now in the limelight. 

Jerry 
I'm so glad success has come to you at last. 

Grant 
Better at last than at first. I'm told it's bad for 
your character to be too successful when you're young. 
So providence nearly starved us a bit, eh? 

Jerry 
You thought it was going to be so easy when we 
were first married. It's been hard for you, dear. I 



10 MASKS 

know. Writing and writing and seeing other fellows 
make money. But now you've won out. You ought 
to be very happy, as I am. 

Grant 
You are happy, aren't you? (He takes her hands 
affectionately, then looks at them, turning them over.) 
The only hard thing, Jerry, was to see these hands of 
yours grow red and rough with the work here. 

Jerry 
Maybe that's the only way they could help you. 

Grant 
{Enigmatically ) 
It's because of them and only because of them that 
I've done it. 

Jerry 
Done what? 

Grant 

Oh, nothing. {He puts paper in the machine.) 
How about a glass of milk? 

Jerry 
I'll get it while the great man reveals himself to an 
anxious public. 

Grant 
And some crackers. {Sitting at machine.) They 
want something on: "How I Make My Characters 



MASKS II 

Live." (She laughs suddenly: he starts.) Oh; it's 
you? 

Jerry 
Yes. I was thinking how funny it was to celebrate 
a success in milk. 

Grant 
Yes. But the greatest joke of all is that The Sand 
Bar is a success — a real financial success. 

Jerry 
It's a very good joke. 

{She goes out happily. Then a cynical look 
creeps into his face. He reads as he types.) 

Grant 
" How I Made My Characters in The Sand Bar 

Live." 

{He pauses a second, smiling cynically. Then, 
as he apparently hears something, he rises and 
goes over to the hall door which he opens 
quickly. He looks out and apparently sees a 
neighbor entering the apartment opposite. A 
bibulous "good night" is heard. He closes the 
door, turns the key, tests the door and sees it is 
locked. As he stands there puzzled, Jerry 
enters, with a bottle of milk, some crackers, and 
an apple on a small tray.) 
You'll have to get over this habit of waiting on 

me now. 



12 MASKS 

Jerry 
Don't ask the impossible. 

Grant 
But we shall have servants now ; plenty of them. 

Jerry 
Plenty of them? Why how much money are you 
going to make out of The Sand Bar? 

Grant 
Nearly a thousand dollars a week. 

Jerry 
{Almost inaudibly as she nearly drops the tray) 
My God! 

Grant 

{As he puts tray on table) 
It will run forty weeks at the National. Then three 
road companies next year: " stock " and the " movies " 
after that. I'm going to make as much money in two 
weeks now as I ever made before in one year — turning 
out hack stuff and book reviews. And all I've got to 
do is to sit back and let it work for me! 

Jerry 
It doesn't seem honest. 

Grant 

Ma}'be it isn't, Jerry. {As he eats.) But when 
the public is pleased it pays to be pleased. 



MASKS 13 

Jerry 

(Venturing) 
The first thing I want is some new clothes. 

Grant 
( Grandiloquently ) 
My first week's royalty is yours. 

Jerry 
Really? 

Grant 
Throw away everything that's darned and patched. 
I'm sick of seeing them. 

Jerry 

I was always so ashamed, too. Just think what 
people w^ould have said if I'd been run over or killed 
in an accident. 

Grant 

Now you'll do the running over— in our new car. 

Jerry 
(Hardly believing her ears) 
A car! 

Grant 

Every successful playwright has a car. 

Jerry 
(Joyfully) 
Then we'll have to move from here to live up to 
the car? 



14 MASKS 

Grant 
We've got to move. It's more important to look 
like a success than to be one. {Glancing about flat.) 
And the Lord knows this doesn't look like success. 

Jerry 
I'm so glad. I've grown to hate these five stuffy 
rooms without sunlight. 

Grant 

Nothing to light them up these ten years but the 
glow of my genius, eh? Now I'll have a big house to 
shine in. 

Jerry 
I've always dreamed of you having a room off by 
yourself. 

Grant 
Where you could really dream without the sound 
of my typewriter waking you and the baby ? 

Jerry 
But it will be splendid for you, too. I don't see how 
you ever wrote here with me always fussing in and out. 

Grant 
Washing the eternal dish and cooking the eternal 
chop. 

Jerry 
I don't ever want to look another gas stove in the 
face. 



MASKS 15 

i 

Grant 

You've cooked your last chop. 

Jerry 
Oh, Grant; my dreams have come true. 

Grant 

{Enigmatically again) 
Yes. Success or failure : it's all a matter of how you 
dream. {She looks up puzzled: he is silent a moment 
and then goes to machine again.) But I'll never get 
this done. 

Jerry 
I'll put on my old wrapper, for the last time, and 
wait up for you. I'm going to get a real negligee to- 
morrow. Your favorite color. 

Grant 
I won't be long. This is an awful bore and I'm 
tired. 

{He begins to pound out something on his 
machine. Jerry goes over to hang up his coat, 
and as she does so, a newspaper clipping falls 
out of his pocket, on the floor. She picks it up 
unnoticed by Grant. She glances at it; starts 
angrily to speak to Grant about it; but seeing 
he is absorbed, hesitates and then conceals it. 
She hangs up the coat, comes around back of 
him as though to speak — but changes her mind. 
She kisses him. As she passes the table, she 
knocks off the manuscript of a play. She picks 
it up.) 



> 


MASKS 




Grant 


What's that? 





Jerry 
The manuscript of The Lonely Way. {He looks 
over at itjtzoith a cynical smile.) You've learned a lot 
about playwrighting since you wrote that, haven't you, 
dear? 

Grant 
Yes — a lot. 

Jerry 

( Tentatively ) 
You used to say it wz.% the best thing you ever did. 

Grant 
How did you happen to come across it? 

Jerry 
I found it behind the chest when I was cleaning. 

Grant 
Oh, yes; I remember. I threw it there the day of 
my great decision: The day I made up my mind to 
rewrite it and call it The Sand Bar. 

Jerry 
{As she glances over the pages) 
Grant. I'm not going to lose you now that you're 
a success? 



MASKS 17 

Grant 
What ever put such a foolish idea in your head ? 

Jerry 
You remember the Tom Robinson you drew in this 
play? All you made him think of was his art; he 
even threw away his wife to make a success of it. 

Grant 
That was because his wife didn't understand. Be- 
sides, dear, you know how much I altered my original 
conception of their characters and completely changed 
the plot. Look how different it all is in The Sand 
Bar. 

Jerry 

And you think your changes made the play truer to 
life? In real life a Tom Robinson wouldn't have got 
rid of her? 

Grant 
I don't think anything's ever going to come between 
us, if that's what you mean. 

Jerry 
Of course not. {Putting the manuscript on table, 
relieved, as she sees him resume his typing.) But I 
felt so sure of you when we were poor. Perhaps it was 
because you couldn't afford to be wild. 

{She turns off the switch and goes out. The 
room is lighted only by the desk lamp, casting 



i8 MASKS 

its shadows into the corners of the room. He 
takes a cigarette from the box on the table, and 
as he smokes he reads half to himself what he 
has written.) 

Grant 
"An author's characters grow into life out of his 
observation and experience. Once they are conceived 
by these two parents their first heart beats are the 
taps of the author's typewriter." Good. " Gradually 
they grow into living men and women. They live with 
him, yet with a life of their own. In writing The 
Sand Bar I . . . I . . . 

{This makes him hesitate to continue. He 
glances toward the manuscript of The Lonely 
Way. He rises slowly and picks it up cyni- 
cally. Then, as though fascinated, he gradually 
settles in the cozy chair by his table. He begins 
to become absorbed as he reads his earlier play. 
He puts his hand over his eyes, he lowers the 
manuscript, gives a sigh as though lost in the 
thoughts it calls up. The door, which he has 
locked, opens noiselessly, and closes as Grant 
looks up in surprise and sees a man enter. 

Grant immediately discovers there is some- 
thing extraordinary about his unexpected visitor. 
As he directs the light upon him. Grant per- 
ceives the mans power which lies both in his 
frame and impressive personality. His eyes have 
a relentless coldness when they narrow. His 
mouth is firm but cruel, with a sarcastic droop 



MASKS 19 

pulling down the corners. In spite of an occa- 
sional uncouth manner of spasmodically blurt- 
ing out his words. Grant soon realizes how 
keen is the intruder s penetration when it is 
sharpened to the one point which vitally con- 
cerns him — his art. For this man of fifty-five 
■ winters, is a great artist. Grant is too amazed 
and puzzled to recognize it is one of his own 
creations: ToM Robinson. 

The latter comes over to the dramatist and 
places a hand on his shoulder.) 

Tom 
You and I have some scores to settle. 

Grant 

{Moving away) 
Who are you? 

Tom 

So you don't recognize me? 

Grant 
Your manners are familiar. 

Tom 
So Whistler once said. Look at me closely. 

Grant 
Is this a dare? 



2o: MASKS 

Tom 
(Shaking his head slowly) 
An author's brain is indeed a store-house of mixed 
impressions: a strange asylum for me to have escaped 
from. 

Grant 
{Starting toward door) 
Possibly the police may be able to lead you safely 
home. 

Tom 
I am at home with you. 

Grant 
Don't get excited. Keep perfectly cool. 

Tom 
I am cool because my intention is. (Grant gives him 
a look as Tom goes over to the machine and glances at 
the heading of the article.) " How I Make My 
Characters Live! " You certainly do — some of us. 

(Grant suddenly crosses to the door, tries it 
and realizes it is still locked. He turns, be- 
wildered, to Tom.) 

Grant 
How did you get in here? 

Tom 
Why shouldn't I? As your fellow-craftsman once 
remarked : " I am a trifle light as air." 



MASKS 21 

Grant 
I can't say you look it. 

Tom 
(Eyeing him as he lights one of Grant's cigarettes) 
Since you don't recognize me perhaps you didn't do 
what you did to me — deliberately. 

Grant 

But I've never done a thing to you. 

Tom 
Are. we so soon forgot? {Puffing) Yet how remi- 
niscent the odor of this cigarette. I notice you still 
smoke the same cheap brand. 

Grant 
I must say I admire your nerve. 

Tom 
You ought to admire it. You gave, it to me. 

Grant 
I never gave you anything. 

Tom 
{Bluntly) 
Liar ! You gave me life ! 

Grant 
Gave you life? 



22 MASKS 

Tom 
Yes; I am your child. 

Grant 
My child? {He laughs.) 

Tom 
Many a man before you has tried to deny paternity 
with a laugh. 

Grant 
But you're old enough to ^^ my father. Are you 
accusing me of improving on Nature? 

Tom 
All artists do. {Picking up manuscript of The 
Lonely Way.) Here's how you described me. 
{Reading) "... his eyes have a relentless cold- 
ness when they narrow . . . mouth firm but cruel. 
i.i .. . Not attractive but impressive." There I am. 
Read it for yourself. 

Grant 
Then you are — ? 

Tom 

{Sarcastically) 

Your child. Your once dearly beloved brain baby. 

Grant 
{Awed) 
Tom Robinson! 



MASKS 23 

Tom 
As you originally conceived him here in The 



Lonely Way. 
Well, I'm damned. 



Grant 



Tom 

I suspect you are. That's what I'm here to see. 
{Ominously) And then if . . . {Suddenly casual) 
But sit down and we'll talk it over calmly first. 
(Grant sits down astonished. Tom sits also.) Thanks. 

Grant 
Go on. 

Tom 
Look at me. Here I am, as you drew me. Tom 
Robinson. Your greatest creation! 

Grant 
I recognize the egotism. 

Tom 

{Blurting) 
I am what my egotism made me. Your egotism also 
made you dare to^ conceive me, here at this very desk, 
out of your brain, in the puffs of your cheap cigarettes. 
The taps on your typewriter were my first heart beats. 
Your birth pains were my own cries of life. 

Grant 
You certainly gave me a lot of trouble. 



24 MASKS 

Tom 
But you never suffered in having me as I did last 
night when I went with you to The Sand Bar and 
saw what you'd done to Tom Robinson ! 

Grant 
{More and more amused at what seems to be the 
childish petulance of an admittedly great man) 
You must have had quite a shock. 

Tom 

Shock? I was disgusted! Why, the actor who's 
interpreting me isn't even bad looking. 

Grant 
No. He couldn't be. He's a star. 

Tom 

But / was your original conception. Why did you 
alter me into a good-looking fashion plate with charm ? 
There never was anything charming about me; never. 

Grant 

{Glancing towards his wife's door) 
Please not so loud. I made you unpleasant, I know ; 
but don't pile it on, Tom. 

Tom 
{With dignity) 
Robinson to you. 



MASKS 25 

Grant 
{Smilinff) 
I beg your pardon. 

Tom 
Why you authors feel you can take liberties with 
your characters is beyond me. I, for one, shall be 
treated with respect. {His eyes narrow.) Unless 
you have lost your capacity to respect a work of art 
like me. 

Grant 
Come, come. I'm afraid it's you who have lost your 
sense of humor. 

Tom 
(Sarcastically) 
Perhaps you didn't give me as much humor as you 
thought. 

Grant 
But can't we talk over the object of your visit in a 
friendly spirit? {With a smile.) Say, as father to 
son? 

Tom 
You'll take me seriously before I'm through. I'll 
remind you that I was a force in The Lonely Way 
though in The Sand Bar Tom Robinson is merely 
a figure. One suit a year was good enough for me. 
You make him change his every act. 



26 MASKS 

Grant 

(More at ease) 
I'm afraid you don't understand the demands of the 
modern theater. 

Tom 
What have I — a great character — to do with the 
modern theater? 

Grant 
Nothing. That's why I revised you. 

Tom 
(Bitterly) 
Then why did you give me life at all? 

Grant 
Because then I was fool enough to think the modern 
theater was a place for great creations. I recognize the 
conditions better now. 

Tom 
But in The Lonely Way you didn't consider me 
a fool when / continued to paint great pictures — in 
spite of conditions. 

Grant 
You were a great artist in that play. 

Tom 
And when you drew me you were a great dramatist. 
(Sadly) Now I see you are only a playwright. 



MASKS 27 

Grant 
And at the National Tom Robinson has become only 
a painter of pot-boilers. {Mockingly) You've cer- 
tainly come down in the world. 

Tom 
I don't need your pity; but I want you to realize 
that what you did to me you also did to yourself. 
When you made me fall, I brought you down with 
me. {He shakes the manuscript before him.) Look! 
I had life there in a powerful play. 

Grant 
I won't dispute that. It was fine: beautifully articu- 
lated in its subtlety. 

Tom 
That just describes it. It was nearly as fine as my 
Sumatra Sunlight or even my Russian Nocturne. 

Grant 

Which you never sold. 

Tom 
But what is painted lives for the future. 

Grant 
Don't be sensitive: my Lonely Way is still here. 
Nobody would produce it. 

Tom 
Yet you cared for nobody when you made me live 
in it — perfect as the frame that held me. The strength 



28 MASKS 

you gave me in my own relentlessness was also yours. 
You glowed when you wrote it ; as you made me glow 
when I painted. You felt the joy which only a creator 
knows when beauty and perfection slowly struggle 
out of his inner vision. 

Grant 
But, my dear fellow . . . 

Tom 
Wait. Contrast this play with The Sand Bar! 
With your skill as a builder you turned what was a 
lonely palace on a peak — aflame with my art — into a 
scrambly suburban residence where miserable ordinary 
people function. You produced a miserable makeshift 
of a play and made Tom Robinson a miserable make- 
shift of a man. {Accusing him.) But when you 
played tricks on me you played tricks on yourself. 
That's what you did when you took from Tom Robin- 
son his genius and made him paint pot-boilers at the 
National. Pot-boilers! Pot-boilers! Me!! Good 
God, man, did you know what you were doing when 
you rewrote this play? 

Grant 
{Slowly) 
I knew exactly what I was doing. I was turning it 
into a popular success. 

Tom 
{Outraged) 
You had not even the excuse of self-deception? 



MASKS 29 

Grant 



No. 



Tom 
(Eyeing him strangely) 
Then you are worse off than we thought! 

Grant 

Wef 

Tom 
I wonder how far you have fallen! I shall be 
patient till we see the depths of your artistic degrada- 
tion. 

Grant 

You said "we"? 

A Woman's Voice 
(Outside) 

Yes. We. 

(Grant gives a start towards the door, think- 
ing the voice has come from his wife's room.) 

Tom 
Oh, that isn't your wife. 

Grant 

Then if you've some friend concealed about your 
person, hadn't you better produce her ? 



30 MASKS 

Tom 
That isn't my friend; that's my wife. 

Grant 
Your humor isn't inspiring. I've heard that bril- 
liant retort before. 

Tom 
Certainly. You wrote it yourself; but you stole it 
from Moliere. If I had your memory I'd be witty, 
too. 

Grant 

{Looking about) 
I don't seem to see Mrs. Robinson very clearly. 

Tom 
She says you never did. Come to think of it, she's no 
longer Mrs. Robinson. 

Grant 
Oh, I forgot. In The Lonely Way you divorced 
her. 

Tom 
Marie and I haven't been on speaking terms since; 
but after she saw The Sand Bar she simply insisted 
on coming here. 

Grant 
Well, I'll be happy to hear her grievance, too. 



MASKS 31 

Tom 
(Ominously) 
You won't think us so amusing when we are through 
with you. 

Grant 
As a dramatist, I admire your talent for suspense. 
{Calling) Come in, Mrs. Robinson. 

Tom 
{Correcting him) 
Case. Mrs. Pendleton Case. You've also forgotten 
that in The Lonely Way you made her marry him. 

Grant 
To be sure. But in The Sand Bar I made her 
stay with you. 

Tom 
Yes. That's one of her grievances. 

Grant 
Come in, Mrs. Case. 

(Grant watches Marie come slowly from be- 
hind the curtains, into the light. Then he sees 
a handsome woman of thirty-five, bien soignee 
to the last degree. Yet somehow to Grant 
her manner is an assumption she has acquired 
and not inherited. Beneath her vivid personal- 
ity, her unrestrained moods glitter with force if 
not heat. But now she eyes him steadily with 



32 MASKS 

the greatest contempt. She wears a magnifi- 
cent opera cloak, clutched close to her. She 
carries a small hand hag. 

Though Marie and Tom are aware of each 
other's presence, they never address each other; 
they speak to each other through Grant as 
though they existed only in him.) 

Grant 

Do sit down. > 

Tom 

Oh, Marie will sit down. Don't worry. 

{Before she sits she carelessly throws her cloak 
over the same chair that Grant had previously 
thrown his coat. She stands revealed in a 
beautiful evening gown. It seems to proclaim 
to Grant her daring and contempt for con- 
ventions. ) 

Marie 
After what I've just heard I don't know whether 
it's worth while to waste words on a creature like you. 

Grant 

{Very politely throughout) 
Your husband seems to have succeeded in doing it. 

Tom 
Her husband? Don't try to saddle her off on me. 
Once was enough. 



MASKS 33 

Marie 
It's only our contempt for you, Mr. Williams, that 
finds us two together. 

Grant 
To be sure. I keep forgetting. 

(Marie takes a cigarette out of the hand bag; 
Grant offers her a light.) 
Permit me. 

{She glares at him and refuses it. As she 
searches her hand bag for a match, a small 
pistol accidentally falls to the floor. Grant 
quickly picks it up and hands it to her. She 
replaces it. He offers her another light, which 
she sullenly accepts.) 

Marie 
I wouldn't accept anything from you, only, in my 
haste, I forgot my matches. (She crosses one knee 
over the other and puffs.) Brr — it's cold here. 

Tom 
{Bluntly) 
She wants a drink. 

Grant 
Will she accept it from me? 

Tom 
She'll take it from anybody. 



34 MASKS 

Grant 
Oh, yes, I remember. I beg your pardon. 

Marie 
{Seeing him lift up the milk bottle) 
Milk! 

Grant 
{Apologetically) 
When I gave you your fondness for alcohol in Thb 
Lonely Way, we didn't have prohibition. 

Marie 
Was that the reason you took it away from Marie 
when you changed her in The Sand Bar? 

Grant 
Not exactly. You see no leading lady can ever have 
a real thirst. I'm sorry if you're cold. 

Tom 
Oh, Mrs. Case will warm up when she remembers 
what you've done to her. She had a wonderful temper 
when she lived with me. 

Marie 
I had to have. And you also took that away from 
me. 

Grant 

I'm very sorry, Mrs. Case; the leading lady didn't 
like your temper either. 



MASKS 35 

Marie 
But / liked it. It was part of my character, as you 
originally conceived me. 

Grant 
Yes; a character touch. It was the only comedy 
relief in my play. 

Tom 
It may have been comedy to you but it was no relief 
to me. 

Marie 

{Emotionally) 

My temper was my defense and my attack. It 

aroused fear and respect. Through it I got what I 

wanted out of life. It was mine! Mine! And you 

took it away from me! Oh! 

{She rushes angrily towards the milk bottle 
and lifts it above her as though to smash it; 
but Grant stops her.) 

Tom 
{As he lights another cigarette) 
There you see. Every time she thinks of what a 
temper she has she loses it. 

Grant * 

{Still holding the bottle with her) 
I concede your temper. I always had a hard time 
to control it. {Taking it from her courteously.) It 
was one of your most unpleasant traits. 



36 MASKS 

Marie 
(Sullenly) 
Then why did you change me? 

Grant 
It's a professional secret, Mrs. Case. The leading 
lady hasn't the capacity to reach the heights your won- 
derful temper demanded. Besides, her specialty is cute 
ingenue stuff. She's a great popular favorite, you 
know, and is consequently afraid to lose her following 
by playing any part which lacks charm. 

Tom 
(Bitterly) 
Charm! Charm! There it is again, Williams. 
You hadn't a bit of respect forTVlrs. Case's true char- 
acter so you made her charming. 

Marie 
But you gave me a charm all my own before I mar- 
ried Tom. 

Tom 
She kept it to herself ; I never suspected it after we 
were married. 

Marie 
But, Mr. Williams, you knew no one could live with 
Tom Robinson and not lose her charm. All he really 
wanted of me was to cook his chops and wash his 
dishes. 



MASKS 37 

Tom 
She seems to forget she was my wife and that I was 
a genius. She wanted me to get my precious fingers 
red and rough in a dish pan. 

Marie 
{Flaring) 
No. I wanted him to be a human being, not an 
artist. 

Grant 

{Who has been trying to speak throughout) 
Please. Please. Remember you two are no longer 
married. 

Tom 
You see: she's warming up. 

Marie 
{Bitterly) 
How like old times. 

Grant 
By Jove. I remember now. {Opening manuscript.) 
I remember everything about you. 

Marie 
Don't be humorous. There's lots about your own 
characters you authors never know. 

Tom 
That's what critics are for. 



38 MASKS 

Marie 
So don't try to make my temper seem trivial, Mr. 
Williams. I valued it. It gave me a chance to assert 
myself. It kept me alive as an individua'1. In The 
Lonely Way, while I was his wife, you made my 
whole fight to keep from being swamped by his person- 
ality. 

Tom 
As a married man yourself, Williams, you know 
damn well that women have got to capitulate in mar- 
riage. We husbands have got to close the door on 
them when they don't understand us. 

Marie 
( Contemptuously ) 
And in The Sand Bar, Marie didn't have the 
courage to take the things of life that lay outside the 
door! She didn't dare, like me, because you'd changed 
her into a sweet simpering woman who loved her 
husband. 

Tom 
But the Tom Robinson she loved there isn't the Tom 
Robinson you see here. 

Marie 
No. The other is a hero! He's a halo on legs. 

Grant 
Your ignorance of theatrical conditions is appalling. 
The Sand Bar had to have a happy ending. If I 



MASKS 39 

hadn't made you both charming the public wouldn't 
have believed in your ultimate happiness together. 

Tom 
{Bringing his hand down on the table) 
Now we're getting at it. Why the devil did you 
bring us together? 

Grant 

{Trying to explain elementally) 
Because I'd turned you into the hero and you into 
the heroine. They must always come together for 
the final curtain. 

Marie 
But I wasn't a heroine. 

Tom 

No. She's right there. 

Marie 
{Emotionally) 
I was a bitter, disillusionized woman. I saw how 
Tom Robinson succeeded in getting out of life what 
he wanted by being relentless. I, too, became relent- 
less and married Pendleton Case because he could give 
me what / most wanted. 

Grant 

{Beginning from now on to lose his patience) 
Yes; but that was too unsympathetic a motive to 



40 MASKS 

use in a popular play. So I had to make Pendleton 
Case a villain who took advantage of your trust in him. 

Marie 
But Penny was only a poor gullible^fool consumed 
by my egotism. Why were you so unfair to him? 
Why did you make him a villain? 

Tom 
Yes. I want to know why you gave him all my 

vices ? 

Grant 
If Case hadn't had all your vices, Marie wouldn't 
have had all the sympathy. 

Marie 
I didn't want sympathy; I wanted clothes! 

Grant 

( Confused) 
But the leading lady has to have sympathy even 
without clothes. I mean 

Tom 
{Quickly) 
Do you mean that the reason you made me sacrifice 
my art in The Sand Bar and rescue her from Case 
was because she had to have sympathy? 



MASKS 41 

Grant 
Exactly. And, besides, how was an audience going 
to know you were a hero unless you sacrificed some- 
thing ? 

Tom 
But I'm not a hero: I'm an artist. You know the 
real reason I got rid of her was because she stood in 
the way of my art; because I wouldn't let a single 
human responsibility weaken the vision within me. 

Marie 
Wasn't that reason enough why I should leave him ? 

Grant 
But that was too abstract an idea for the audience 
to get. 

Marie 
So you turned an abstraction into a villain ! 

Grant 
Can't you see your husband couldn't rescue you 
from an abstraction? 

Marie 
But I didn't want to be rescued. I wanted to 
marry Penny! 

Tom 
And I was tickled to death to get rid of her. 



42 MASKS 

Marie 
Yes. It meant release for us both to be ourselves. 

Grant 
But, Robinson, you had to rescue her. She was the 
leading lady. The manager pays her five hundred 
dollars a week to marry the star. 

Marie 
Well, she earns it. 

Grant 
She earns it because she draws. 

Tom 
{Surprised) 
Does she paint, too? 

Grant 
She draws that much money into the box office. 

Tom 
Money, money! How that runs through your talk. 

Marie 
{Referring to Tom) 
I wish to heaven it had run through his. 

Tom 
{Lifting his voice angrily) 
I was above such things. I am an artist. Money! 
Money! I see red when I hear that word. Money! 
Money! The curse of true art. 



MASKS 43 

Grant 

{Pointing to his wife's door) 
Please, please; not so loud. You'll wake the baby. 

Marie 
{With a poignant cry) 
Oh! 

Grant 
What's the matter with you ? 

Marie 
I forgot all about that. You also took my baby 
away from me in The Sand Bar. 

Tom 
So far as I was concerned that was the only decent 
thing you did. I had to make money for the child. 

Marie 
Have you forgotten that was the other reason I left 
him ? He didn't love our child : it was in his way. 

Tom 
Love a mewling, puking child ? Not much. 

Grant 

{Trying to calm her as she walks up and down) 
Sh! Control yourself. 



44 MASKS 

Marie 
My love for the child was the only decent thing 
about me. 

Grant 
But I gave you other virtues. I made you love your 
husband. 

Marie 
If I had to love my husband in your revised version 
couldn't I at least have kept my child? 

Grant 
Don't be unreasonable. No leading lady wants a 
child. 

Marie 
So you took it away to please the leading lady! 

Grant 
Can't you understand if I'd given her a child it 
would have complicated matters? 

Tom 
You're right. It certainly complicated matters for 
me. 

Grant 
{Trying to explain) 
I wanted the struggle to be a simple one between 
two men and a woman. A child would have been 
a side-issue. 



MASKS 45 

Marie 
You call my child a side-issue! (Looking at Tom.) 
Hasn't his father anything to say to that? 

Tom 
{To Grant) 
She can't get me excited about that brat. It stood 
in my way. I'd have killed it myself if necessary. 

Marie 
{To Grant) 
But you killed it instead. 

Grant 
{Losing patience) 
Yes. I killed it for the same reason he would have: 
because it would have stood in the way of the play's 
success. Are you a couple of fools? Can't you both 
get into your heads I was writing a play to make 
money ? 

Tom 
Money! Money again! 

Marie 
{Astonished as she comes to Grant) 
So you killed it for money? 

Grant 
Yes. Just as I changed you both for money. 



46 MASKS 

Tom 
If you'd killed it for art I would have understood. 
But to kill a creature for money! You are a mur- 
derer ! 

Marie 
{Sneering) 
And how much blood money will you get for what 
you have done? 

Grant 

A thousand dollars a week! 

Marie 
{Overcome) 
My God! 

Tom 
{Awed) 
How much did you say? 

Grant 
A thousand a week. 

Marie 
You're going to get that much for putting me into 
a popular success? 

Grant 
Yes. 



MASKS 47 

Tom 



She isn't worth it. 



Grant 

{Determined to have it out with them) 
It was worth it to me. Think of the exquisite joy 
I had in revising my problem drama. Think of how 
I turned two hectic, distorted, twisted, selfish, miser- 
able, little-souled characters into two self-sacrificing, 
sugar-coated, lovable beings! 

Tom 
You are not only a murderer but a hypocrite: you 
distorted life to win sympathy for us. 

Grant 

The theater no longer has anything to do with life. 
It's a palace of personality. 

Tom 
Well, what's the matter with my personality? 

Marie 
Leaving him aside, what about me? 

Grant 

You wouldn't draw a cent. There wasn't a dollar 
in either of you. 

Marie 
Is that my fault? You made us what we are. 



48 MASKS 

Grant 
Yes; before I learned that the public pays to be 
pleased. Do you think there's anything pleasing about 
either of you? Why, you couldn't even be happy to- 
gether. 

Tom 
This is getting damned personal. 

Marie 
What right has the public got to be so proud of 
itself? There's many a woman in the audience worse 
than I am. 

Grant 

But they want to be flattered into believing they are 
as much like heroes and heroines as you are not. The 
successful playwright, like the fashionable portrait 
painter, flatters and never reveals. 

Tom 

While true artists like me starve? 

Grant 

And dramatists who write " Lonely Ways " also 
starve. What are you two kicking so about ? Because 
I've raade you respectable, wealthy and happy? Do 
you think the general public cares a whoop in Hades 
what / think of life, of my peculiar slant on the motives 
that mess up the characters that happen to interest mef 
No : all they want is what they want life to be. 



MASKS 49 

Tom 
How little you know of human nature. If we'd had 
a chance to be our true selves we would have been 
appreciated. 

Grant 

By whom, pray? A few professional soul lovers. 
And they'd get into the theater on passes. No. You 
are caviar; most of the world lives on mush. So I 
mixed you in mush, sentimental glue, anything you 
want to call it. 

Tom 

You disgust me. 

Marie 
But I see hope for you. At heart you despise the 
crowd, as I did its smug conventions. 

Grant 
{Bitterly) 
I hate what it has made me suffer. 

Tom 
Every great artist has despised them. I despise 
them. 

Grant 

{More seriously) 
Only I think the public has its rights. They have 
the right to laugh, to watch virtue triumph, to behold 



50 MASKS 

success, to feel love win out, to see what they think is 
happiness. They have that right because their own 
lives are so full of the other things. And maybe they 
like to dream a little, too. 

Marie 
Who's mushy now? 

Grant 
Don't sneer at a popular success. It's sometimes 
more difficult to perform a trick than climb a mountain 
peak. 

Tom 
Have we artists no rights? 

Grant 
( Wearily ) 
Only the right to dream and starve. 

Marie 
But I'm not an artist: I'm one of your creations. 
Have / no rights? Must I be turned into a trained 
poodle and do tricks for money ? 

Grant 
You are only a phantom, a projection, a figment. 

Marie 
{With great indignation) 
You call me a figment? 



MASKS 51 

Tom 
{Rising ominously) 
I'm tired of hearing you insult your own flesh and 
blood. 

Grant 
I disowned you both when I rewrote you. I was 
thinking then of only one thing: the public. 

Tom 
Liar! Ydu did deceive yourself! You were think- 
iing of your wife and child. 

Marie 
{Seeing Grant is startled) 
That gets you. You did this to us for them. 

Grant 
{Himself serious now throughout) 
Yes. I was thinking of them most of all. 

Marie 
Yet when you created Tom Robinson in The 
Lonely Way you did not let him think of his wife 
and child. 

Tom 
That's where I was bigger than you, Grant 
Williams ! 

Grant 
You mean more brutal. 



52 MASKS 

Tom 
Mush. Mush. You can't hide behind that. {Im- 
pressively.) I am you! I could never have lived had 
I not been a wish hidden in yourself. I am what you 
would have been if you had dared! 

Grant 
How dare you say a thing like that? I made you. 
I knew you inside and out. 

Tom 
But you didn't know yourself. / knew when you 
wrote me that you wanted to be as relentless as you 
made me. 

Grant 
I hated you. I hated every bone beneath your 
miserable hide! 

Tom 

{With a triumphant smile) 
That only proves it! You were afraid to be your- 
self; so you created me! 

Grant 
{Shrinking back) 
No . . . No . . . 

Tom 
You forget people have made gods and devils out of 
their own dreams to worship and hate. Look at me, 
through the mask you gave me, and see yourself! I 



MASKS 53 

was the worst of what was human in you — the devil 
side of you: I was the best of what was the artist in 
you — the God within you! 

Grant 
(Js though stunned by the thought) 
God and devil. No . . . No . . . 

Marie 
(Seriously) 
Now I see how / came into being. I was your 
wife, as part of you saw her! (He protests.) She was 
in your way, as I was in his way. You made Tom 
close the door on me because, deep in your soul, you 
wished to close it on her. She never understood. 

Grant 
Stop. You shan't go any further. She stood by me 
through all these years of poverty. She loves me and 
understands. 

Marie 

(Relentlessly) 
But you thought her a fool for loving you. You 
really thought she ought to go. You wanted her to 
go, I tell you. You wanted her to see that your art 
meant more to you than her love. But you didn't have 
the courage to do to her what you made him do to me ! 

Grant 
(To Tom) 
Take her away! I won't let her say these things. 
I did what I did to you for Jerry's sake. I wanted to 



54 MASKS 

make money so she would be happy. I couldn't stand 
it to see her hands grow rough ... 



Tom 

{Contemptuously) 

Bosh! Art denies all human responsibility. You 

made me face that truth with my wife, and when I 

threw her out I was your own inner answer to that 

eternal question! 

Grant 
I tell you my love for her is greater than for my art. 

Marie 
Mush. Mush. It's time to think of punishment. 

Grant 
Punishment? {Triumphantly) I have a thousand 
a week. She will have clothes and comfort. And you 
talk of punishment! 

Marie 
{Drawing a pistol and pointing it at him) 
What you did to us means your death. 

Tom 
{Stopping her) 
No. You cannot be killed, Grant Williams. You 
are dead already. 



MASKS 55 

Marie 
{About to shoot) 
I think I'll make sure. 

Tom 

(As Grant stares at him spellbound) 

When you turned your soul into money you died. 

There is a greater punishment. We'll let what remains 

of you live, as we shall live to haunt you in your 

dreams. 

Grant 

{Laughing hysterically) 
But you can't live. I killed you. You're dead, too. 
And the dead cannot dream. 

Tom 
We are your dreams. We will outlast you. 

Marie 
We live. We shall go on living. Yes. That is a 
greater revenge. We'll haunt you every time you are 
alone. ... 

Grant 
You can't. You can't ... 

Tom 
Whenever you smoke and think in your new 
house . . . 



56 MASKS 

Marie 
Or walk by the sands, you will see only our hands 
beckon you from the living waters of the sea . . . 



Grant 

(Frantically) 
I'll drown you like rats. I'll keep you under till 
you are dead. You shan't come back . . . ever 
. . . ever . . . (They both laugh.) Get out. 
You phantoms . . . I'll kill you again . . . 

Tom 
Mush . . . Mush . . :., 

Grant 
I'll kill you forever now. {He picks up the manu- 
script of The Lonely Way and savagely tears it 
up.) Die. Die forever . . . Die . . . 

{They laugh loudly and mockingly at him.) 

Tom 
You see we still live ! 

Grant 
Ah. ril kill you yet. I'll kill you! 

{He rushes towards them and overturns the 
lamp. They laugh mockingly farther off in the 
complete darkness.) 
rU kill you! I'll kill you! 



MASKS 57 

Jerry 

{As she enters) 
Grant!! What is the matter? 

{She turns on the switch by the door. The 
other lights flare up. She is dressed in a kimono, 
with her hair in braids. He rushes towards 
her.) 

Grant 
I'll kill you! 

Jerry 
Grant! 

{He holds her arms, suddenly realizing who she 
is and that they are alone.) 

Grant 
You are real, aren't you ? You are flesh and blood ? 

Jerry 
Silly boy. What on earth is the matter with you? 
I go out of the room for a moment and I come back 
to find you yelling and wanting to kill me. 

Grant 
{Still dazed) 
No. It wasn't true : I don't want to get rid of you. 
I . . . 

Jerry 
{In a matter-of-fact tone) 
I do wish you'd gei over the habit of acting all 
your plays out. The neighbors will think you and I 



58 MASKS 

aren't happy. You'd better come to bed and get some 
rest. 

Grant 
I — I couldn't sleep just now. 

{He goes over to the table and sees the manu- 
script of The Lonely Way untouched. He 
stands trying to collect himself.) 

Jerry 
It's upset you, reading over The Lonely Way? 

Grant 
{Half to himself) 
That's strange. 

Jerry 
Then what is the matter? 

Grant 

{Evasively as he sits down wearily) 
I — I was reading over the notices. 

Jerry 
I should have thought they'd soothe you, not get 
you so excited. Though there is one that put me in a 
terrible temper. {He looks at her quickly.) Why 
did you conceal the Gazette notice from me? {Smil- 
ing, she shows it to him: he takes it.) Did you think 
this would worry me because Arthur Black said The 
Sand Bar didn't live up to the promise of your other 
plays? 



MASKS 59 

Grant 
{Half to himself) 
And he was the only one who liked the others that 
failed. 

Jerry 
But it is outrageous of him to say you'd deserted 
your ideals. I have half a mind to write to the Editor. 

Grant 
{With a thought) 
Would it mean so very much to you if it were true ? 

Jerry 
Of course it would. 

Grant 

{Defensively) 
But, after all, Jerry, does it make any difference to 
anybody but the artist whether he sells out or not? 

Jerry 
But, dear, / think you've just begun to reach your 
ideals. 

Grant 
Just begun? 

Jerry 
Yes. I never told you before because I didn't want 
to discourage you when we were so hard up. But, 



6o MASKS 

Grant dear, I never liked all those other plays — 
especially The Lonely Way. They seemed un- 
worthy of you. The Sand Bar is the first play 
that really seems true to life. 

Grant 
{Staring at her) 
Really true to life? 

Jerry 
Yes. And I hope from now on you'll go on writing 
the plays that will make people feel happier and . . . 

Grant 

{Suddenly bursting out in an ironic laugh) 
I've got it. I've got it. 

Jerry 
What? 

Grant 
The curtain raiser Trebaro wants. I'll call it The 
Mask. No. Masks! That's the title. I'll show 
them whether I'm dead or not. 

Jerry 
What are you talking of? 

Grant 

The theme of my play: that so long as an artist 
knows what he is doing with his art he is alive: that 
the only thing which can kill him is self-deception. 



MASKS 6i 

Jerry 
Dear me, you're going to write another play nobody 
will understand? 

Grant 
{Contemptuously) 
Why should I care whether anybody will under- 
stand it? 

Jerry 
But Trebaro won't produce it, dear. 

Grant 
Oh yes, he will: he said he'd produce anything I 
wrote no matter how good it was. 

Jerry 
{Seeing him eagerly go to his typewriter) 
You're going to begin it now? 

Grant 
Yes. Now. I can write it off at a sitting. 

Jerry 
To-night — of all nights? 

Grant 
Yes. As Tom said: while the "glow" is here. 
Now that I'm free. I'll show them whether I'm dead 
or not. I'll use their very words. I'll make it bite. 



62 MASKS 

Jerry 
{Completely lost) 
I don't understand you or what you are talking 
about. 

Grant 
(Gives her a look) 
You don't need to understand now, Jerry; The 
Sand Bar has released you. 

Jerry 
{Hurt) 
I never heard you talk like this before. You're 
unkind. 

Grant 
{Putting paper in machine) 
I don't mean to be, dear ; only my nerves are on edge. 

Jerry 

{Begins to cry) 

I can see that. You've no regard for my feelings. 

Grant 
I have my work , . . 

Jerry 
You seem so far off all of a sudden. To-night of all 
nights ! Just when you've made your first real success ! 



MASKS 63 

Grant 
{More testily) 
Please. Please, Jerry. I won't be able to write this 
if I have to think of anything else. 

(He begins to write. He looks about the room 
showing he is describing it.) 
" The scene is the living-room in a flat. The doorway 
from the public stairs opens immediately upon it with- 
out the intervening privacy of a small hallway ..." 
(He murmurs as he goes on, striking the keys 
very rapidly. She stands looking at him — hurt 
and wondering what it means: but he is ab- 
sorbed. Then she slowly goes to the kerosene 
heater and lights it. She looks at him a mo- 
ment.) 

Jerry 
I guess I won't wait up for you to-night. I'm cold. 
{She goes out, hardly controlling herself. He 
continues for a moment. Then he gets up, still 
absorbed, and closes the door after her. He 
resumes his work with the glow of intense crea- 
tion on his face.) 



;[Curtain] 



JIM'S BEAST 



THE PEOPLE 

Brontosaurus, a fossil. 
Sarah, a scrubwoman. 
Professor Pohl, a curator. 
Robert Hood, a member of the Legislature. 
Elizabeth Livingston, a seeker of sensations. 
Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyke, a social leader, 
Mrs. James Morrow, a wealthy woman. 
Robert Livingston, a good citizen. 
Larry Anderson, a doughboy. 



SCENE 

A corner in the Hall of Paleontology of a Public 
Museum; late one afternoon. 



JIM'S BEAST* 

fjr^WO arched passageways are in back, and he- 
rn tween them, on the wall, is a large dark plaster 
-^ cast which may be a replica of the famous Dino- 

saur footprints in Brownstone. Beneath this is a low 
bench. At the extreme right, as one enters from back, 
there are two cases, just visible, in which are fossil bones 
and casts. There is a bench near them and an aisle be- 
tween which leads off to the windozus beyond, suggested 
by the soft streams of sunlight which shoot over the tops 
of the cases to the Brontosaurus opposite. Only the 
dull-colored flat skull and a portion of the neck of this 
venerable fossil are to be seen, projecting about a 
yard or two. It stands seven feet above its low plat- 
form, which is surrounded by a railing. On this is 
a slanted sign which describes it. Its size, its grimness 
and the light which rests upon it make it dominate 
everything. The remainder of the huge dinosaur is 
masked by a high screen at its left, upon which hangs 
a map indicating by its varied horizontal shades of 
color, the various geological strata and periods. 

When the curtain slowly lifts, Sarah, a scrubwoman, 
is on her knees, mopping the floor with long practised 
sweeps. 

She is fifty, heavy, with a dull tired face lined by 

• Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. 



68 JIM'S BEAST 

years of physical toil. Though her hair is tightly drawn 
back and tied in a knot, several long wisps fall across 
her eyes as she leans forward over her work; and she 
continually pushes these back with her arm, since her 
hands are wet and soapy. 

As she wrings her rag savagely she mumbles to 
herself in a rich Irish brogue. 

Sarah 
Scrub. Mop. Scrub. {She looks up at the 

Brontosaurus.) Keepin' watch on me, too, ye dirty 

heathen. Grinnin' there every day at me a-scrubbin' 

and moppin'. 

{She raises the rag, in momentary revolt, as 
though she were about to throw it at the skull. 
But she stops sullenly as she mechanically re- 
sumes her work.) 

Ye dirty heathen ... me a-scrubbin' . . . 

{As she finds a hairpin and sticks it in her hair. 
Prof. Pohl enters, carrying a small plaster 
cast in which is embedded the outlines of a fossil. 

Prof. Pohl, the curator, is a short, round- 
shouldered man nearing sixty. He is absorbed 
in his scientific interest, devoid of conscious 
humor and fundamentally inclined to be im- 
patient with anything that has not been dead 
for at least several million years.) 

Professor 
Good afternoon, Sarah. 



JIM'S BEAST 69 

Sarah 
(Mumbling half to herself resentfully ^ as he walks over 
where she has just mopped) 
And I was just after a-moppin' up that place. 

Professor 
You're cleaning up earlier than usual. 

Sarah 
Wipe 'em up as they comes, says I: it's easier in the 
end. 

Professor 
But I'm expecting over two hundred soldiers here 
this afternoon. 

Sarah 
{Astonished) 
Here? What's the matter with 'em? 

Professor 
They're slightly wounded. 

Sarah 
Shure: that explains it. 

Professor 
All the theaters are entertaining them so I've in- 
vited them here. I thought the soldiers might enjoy 
having me personally show them through the paleonto- 
logical section. Dr. Taylor has volunteered to explain 
the mummies. 



70 JIM'S BEAST 

Sarah 
What between these dead 'uns and them ould ladies 
the boys'll be havin' a folne time, all roight. 

Professor 
I thought it might be edif5'ing, too. 

Sarah 
{As she resumes her mopping) 
They'll be a-makin' more work for me; but foot- 
prints is footprints no matter who makes 'em. 

Professor 
{Looking in case at the right) 
Now where's that card? 

{He tries to get key out of pocket to open case 
but he is afraid of breaking the cast.) 
Sarah, will you assist me? 

Sarah 
Me! Touch one of them dead corpses? 

Professor 
No; no. That's so; you'd get them wet. 

{She watches him as he goes to bench and lays 
the cast down carefully on the handkerchief he 
has spread for it. Then he goes over to case, 
opens it with a key, returns for cast and puts 
it with care and affection in the case.) 

Sarah 
Ye'd be a-thinkin' it was a baby ye was puttin' to bed. 



JIM'S BEAST 71 

Professor 
{Admiring them) 
All these are my children, Sarah. 

Sarah 

{Mumbling as she looks up at the Brontosaurus) 

I'd see a doctor about it if I was their mother. 

Professor 
There. {He closes the case.) That's a very rare 
Pterodactyl. {She is somehow not impressed.) I've 
reconstructed it from five tiny bones found in Oregon. 

Sarah 
{Wringing mop with a contemptuous look at him) 
Why go to all that trouble? 

Professor 
I'm afraid you wouldn't understand. I study fossils, 
Sarah, because it is my profession — just as scrubbing is 
yours. 

Sarah 
Do ye have to do it? 

Professor 
No; I chose it. I'm very happy In it. 

Sarah 
What I'd loike to know is why I've got to scrub and 
mop all the day? / don't do it for pleasure. 



72 JIM'S BEAST 

Professor 
{Failing to see the human analogy) 
Somebody's got to keep the Museum clean. 

Sarah 

{Seeing him blow off some clay from bench) 

Yes. Some o' us is born to wipe up other people's 

dirt, and some's born to make it. {Wiping it.) Why 

can't everybody clean up his own dirt, says I ? Maybe 

they wouldn't be makin' so much. 

Professor 
I daresay you're right. {Over by the Bronto- 
SAURUS.) You've forgotten to run your rag over this 
platform. 

Sarah 
{Rebelliously) 
Ye don't git me inside th' rail with that dirty 
heathen. 

Professor 
The superintendent tells me he's had to remind you 
every day. 

Sarah 

{Her revolt rises) 

If I've got to go inside there alone ye can tell 'im 

I'm through. There's plenty of dirty places in the 

world what needs cleanin' and if I've got to mop I'm 

going to do me own pickin' of dirt an' places. 



JIM'S BEAST 73 

Professor 
(Firmly) 
But you forget you're paid for this. 

Sarah 
If ye'll pardon my saying so I ain't paid to go 
rubbin' agin' the slats of that dirty heathen loike you. 
I'm paid me two an' a quarter a day to wash up 
people's tracks. Two an' a quarter a day, mind ye, 
by this place what owns jewels and things they wraps 
up in satins and laces what honest people could git 
some comfort out of — and the cost of livin' mountin' 
high as St. Peter himself. 

Professor 
(Impatiently) 
If you won't keep it clean, there are plenty of scrub- 
women who will. 

Sarah 
Ye care more for the looks of that dirty heathen 
than ye do for my feelin's. 

Professor 
(Outraged) 
Sarah! You forget there are only a few fossils like 
this in existence! I don't want to have to report you 
for lack of respect. 

Sarah 
Shure, it's not ye I'm not respectin' — it's that other 
inhuman beast. 



74 JIM'S BEAST 

Professor 
Now be a sensible girl and run your rag over it. 

Sarah 
(Sullenly as her revolt subsides) 
Oh, all roight. It's seein' it in me sleep I am as it is. 
(She slowly picks up the mop and pail and goes 
under the rail, cautiously rubbing the platform 
with wide stretched arms.) 

Professor 
Around the feet, Sarah. 

Sarah 
They're so big it's glad I am they've put a brass rail 
around 'im so he can't be prowlin' about at night track- 
in' the place up. It's bad enough some of the people 
what come here to see him. 

Professor 
But you have less to clean up than some of the other 
girls. (Sighing.) So few people wander in this out 
of the way section. 

Sarah 
Ye don't think anyone would be fool enough to look 
at these corpses for pleasure, do ye? 

Professor 
I suppose not. 



JIM'S BEAST 75 

Sarah 
Even though it means more work to my poor back, 
I'm goin' to ask to be put over where the cases of 
butterflies are. When I was a-scrubbin' around them 
I could be thinkin' that I was out among the daisies, 
instead of hangin' 'round a morgue. 

Professor 
That's much better, Sarah. {Gazing in admiration 
at the fossil.) Wonderful specimen — ^wonderful! 

(Robert Hood enters. He is a well set-up, 
attractive young man about thirty. As he 
glances impatiently at his watch, it is evident 
he is ill at ease and under the stress of an un- 
usual emotion. Though he carries a Museum 
catalogue it is soon apparent he has come for a 
rendezvous. 

Sarah soon disappears from view — scrub- 
bing.) 

Hood 

I beg your pardon. Is this where the Brontosaurus 
lives? 

Professor 
Yes. {Proudly) This is the Brontosaurus. 

Hood 

{Indifferently) 
Oh, is it? Thanks. 



76 JIM'S BEAST 

Professor 
Are you interested in fossils? 

Hood 
Fossils? — Oh, yes; but only the living ones. 

Professor 
Oh, then you've come to see the Hoatzins ? 

Hood 
{Impatiently) 
Not especially. 

Professor 
They're in the ornithological section. Curious, isn't 
it, when people think fossils are so remote, that to-day 
in the thorn bushes along the Berbice River there 
should be a small living bird who swims, creeps, climbs, 
dives and can duplicate within a few minutes the 
processes of evolution through the centuries. Mr. 
Beebe calls them *' living fossils " ; so when you 
said . . . 

Hood 
{Affain looking at his watch) 
It's very interesting. 

Professor 
' Their wing formation somewhat resembles the 
Archaeopteryx. We have a cast of the Solenhofen 
specimen, if you . . . 



JIM'S BEAST 77 

Hood 
I have a catalogue. I'd like to study them myself, 
quietly at first, if you don't mind. 

{He sits down on the bench at back and opens 
the catalogue. The Professor is offended, 
gives him a look and goes out. The minute he 
has gone, HoOD arises, takes several steps about 
as though looking for someone. Sarah has 
entered with her pail and watches him. She 
stands there, a worn and abject figure. HoOD 
takes out his watch again.) 

Sarah 
I beg ye pardon ? 

Hood 
{Startled a moment) 
Eh? 

Sarah 
Do ye be havin' the toime about ye? 

Hood 
My watch says four. But I think it must be fast. 

Sarah 
{As she wearily crosses) 
Thank ye, sir. 

Hood 
{A bit anxiously) 
When does the Museum close? 



78 JIM'S BEAST 

Sarah 
For ye or for me? 

Hood 
Why, for me; of course. 

Sarah 
Ye'll hear the bell in a half -hour; it's not long after 
that I'll be a-pullin' up these shades. 

Hood 
Thanks. 

Sarah 
{Pointedly as she begins to wash up his footsteps) 
If ye need more toime to look at the animals ye may 
be doin' it, as the Professor is expectin' a whole regi- 
ment of soldiers. 

Hood 

{Vexed) 

Coming here? I thought nobody ever came here? 

Sarah 
Ye mustn't be surprised at anythin' in a museum. 
All the strange animals ain't behind the railin's. 

{She gives him a knowing look and finally 
goes out of sight, mopping down the aisle. 
He takes a step impatiently and then sits in 
back and opens catalogue aimlessly as he sees 
Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyke and Mrs. James 



JIM'S BEAST 79 

Morrow enter from back. They do not notice 
him at first. 

Mrs. Van Dyke is a harmless middle- 
aged woman who throughout life has comfort- 
ably relied on her blood instead of her brains. 
She hides the absence of the latter by a calm and 
superior imperturbability. 

Her companion, Mrs. James Morrow, is 
younger; obviously nouveau riche, she has 
achieved a successful manner, most of which is 
dexterously expressed in her lorgnette. 

Both women are handsomely gowned and 
proclaim to the observer flaunting wealth.) 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
I'm sure we've lost our way. 

Mrs. Morrow 
The attendant said keep turning to the right. 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
I can't say it's my idea of ancient jewelry. 

Mrs. Morrow 
No. But if we dressed up at Mrs. Bilton's ball like 
some of these animals, we'd certainly make a hit. 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
It might suit you, dear; but I think I'll wear at 
least some jewelry. I'm sure there must be wonderful 



8o JIM'S BEAST 

old pieces in the museum I can get Tiffany to copy 
in time. I must find something original. 

Mrs. Morrow 

{Looking absently at Hood through her lorgnette) 

Dear me, this is a terrible place — full of monsters. 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
I can't say they're very showy. {Glancing at the 
Brontosaurus.) What an ugly animal! What 
is it? 

Mrs. Morrow 
{Reading sign) 
It's a Bron — {Not able to pronounce it and turn- 
ing away) I left my reading-glasses at home. You 
try. 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
{After studying it a moment) 
Oh, yes: I've heard of them. {More closely.) 
Why, that looks like your husband . . . 

Mrs. Morrow 
{Interrupting, as she turns quickly to the fossil) 
My husband? That? 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
{Looking more closely) 
Yes. It is your husband's name. {Reading) 
" Donated by James Morrow." 



JIM'S BEAST 8i 

Mrs. Morrow 
Why this must be Jim's beast! 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
Jim's beast? 

(Hood covertly shows a bit of interest in spite 
of his more pressing impatience over their 
presence.) 

Mrs. Morrow 
I knew there was something here Jim wanted me to 
see. He donated $250,000 to the museum last year. 
He said they'd bought some old animal with it. 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
I can't say I admire his taste. I thought he went 
in for horses. 

Mrs. Morrow 
Of course, it's Jim's own money; but it does seem 
a bit extravagant to turn all that money into old bones. 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
Yes; when he might buy so many nicer things you 
could wear. 

Mrs. Morrow 

Jim's been awfully generous to me; though, of 

course, now that the war's over we've got to hold in 

a bit. He hasn't any more army contracts, you know. 

{Sighing) It certainly was wonderful while it lasted. 



83 JIM'S BEAST 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
I shouldn't worry about ft if I were you. Why, even 
this beast would look like a piece of bric-a-brac in that 
new house he gave you. 

Mrs. Morrow 
{The hand of Sarah mopping in the aisle is 
seen. Mrs. Morrow is startled.) 
What's that? 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
Oh, it's only an old scrubwoman. 

Mrs. Morrow 
They might wait till the museum closed before they 
splash about spoiling our gowns. 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
Well, if we're ever going to see that ancient jewelry 
before we're as old as it is, I suppose we'd better try 
and find it. 

Mrs. Morrow 
But I'll have to tell Jim I came especially to see his 
beast: he'll want to know what it looks like, the poor 
dear! 

(Elizabeth Livingston enters. She is a 
woman of such an indefinite age that she must be 
past her early thirties. Handsome, well-groomed 
and yet a hit hectic, her secret is that she is d 
born intriguante and likes to see men feverish. 



JIM'S BEAST 83 

She sees Hood: he sees her: the two women 
catch this exchange of glances, though Hood 
instantly resumes reading and Bess goes quickly 
to the case opposite not to betray she is there 
to meet HoOD. 

The two women exchange significant glances. 
Hood looks up and catches Mrs. Morrow eye- 
ing him through her lorgnette. He rises in 
question.) 

Mrs. Morrow 
( To cover it) 
I beg pardon. Do you happen to know where they 
keep the ancient jewelry? 

Hood 
{Politely) 
I think it's to the right. 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
But that's what the other man said. 

Hood 
Have you tried the long hall? 

Mrs. Morrow 
But which hall ? 

Hood 

{Obviously trying to get rid of them) 
The very furthest hall. 



84 JIM'S BEAST 

Mrs. Morrow 
Oh . . . (She turns to Mrs. Van Dyke.) The 
very furthest hall, he said. (Aside to her as they turn) 
Vm afraid we're de trop. I'm sure it's . . . 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
I thought so, too; and with a different tame robin 
this time. (As she turns and looks at the Bronto- 
SAURUS.) I'm glad I won't look like Jim's beast 
when I'm dead. 

Mrs. Morrow 
Well, dear, we'll never be found in a museum at 
any rate. 

Mrs. Van Dyke 
(As they go up) 
I don't know. I'm most dead already. 

(Mrs. Morrow gives a look at Bess through 
her lorgnette. They go out obviously gossiping 
about her. 

Hood takes a step to see they have gone. 
Then he turns tensely.) 

Hood 
Bess! 

Bess 
Oh, Bob! 



JIM'S BEAST 85 

Hood 



Dearest ! 



Bess 
Be careful. Somebody may see us. I'm sure those 
women . . . 

Hood 
(With extravagant expression) 
I'd like the whole world to see us. I can't stand 
this much longer. Bess, I want you. 

Bess 
I know. Sh! 

(Sarah comes from out of aisle, goes out of 
sight, obviously to clean another aisle. But 
she has seen them and gives a knowing smile 
as though such rendezvous were not unusual.) 

Hood 
It can't go on like this. 

Bess 
Aren't you satisfied with what we've already had? 

Hood 
{Unconsciously playing up to the situation) 
I want all or nothing — the you all the world has, 
too. I . . . 

Bess 
Yes? Say it. I like to hear you say it. 



86 JIM'S BEAST 

Hood 
I want you to be my wife. (Intensely) Bess! 
Bess! Will you? 

Bess 
Give me time to think. 

Hood 
But it can't go on like this . . . having me meet 
you in strange places . . . always being afraid. 
Bess, you love me, don't you ? 

Bess 
Oh, Bob! 

Hood 
You've never loved anybody before as you love me? 

Bess 
Oh, no; you're so fine and strong and . . . 

Hood 
Then why are you afraid ? 

Bess 
The world . . . my world . . . your world . . . 

Hood 
But you wouldn't be the first who ... 

Bess 
Don't drive me to the wall! 



JIM'S BEAST 87 

Hood 
You must decide. 

Bess 

I'm thinking of you. I'm older than you. In time, 
perhaps, you . . . 

Hood 

Never. 

Bess 
How you say it! 

Hood 
I love you. I've never loved any woman before. 
I'll never love any woman again. 

Bess 
My dear boy! I must go now. I just wanted to 
see you, to hear you say you love me» 

Hood 
And I came because I wanted a definite answer. 

Bess 
Wait. In time. Don't drive me to the wall. 

Hood 
{Heroically) 
I tell you I'll kill myself if . . . 



88 JIM'S BEAST 

Bess 
Bob! Do you care as much as that? 

Hood 
Yes. Nothing else matters. 

Bess 
But your career — your position ? 

Hood 
You are more than all that. What will you give up 
for me? 

Bess 

Sh! Somebody's coming. (In a different tone, mis- 
tress of herself.) It must have taken a good many 
years to collect these specimens. 

(Ray Livingston has come in on this, walking 
slowly down with eyes that glitter for a moment 
on seeing them. 

He is about sixty. The tightly drawn skin 
on his face clearly reveals the bones beneath. 
He is an aristocratic, calm, collected man: the 
essence of deliberate politeness. When he comes 
to them he acts as though he were surprised.) 

Livingston 
Bess, This is a surprise. 



JIM'S BEAST 89 

Bess 
Ray? 

Livingston 
Do you come here often ? 

Bess 
I was just strolling through to look at some ancient 
jewelry when I happened to meet Mr. Hood.— This 
is my husband. Mr. Hood. 

{As Livingston crosses slowly and shakes his 
hand with cold studied courtesy. Hood gives 
him a sickly smile, ill at ease in an unaccus- 
tomed situation.) 

Livingston 
I'm charmed to meet you. I've heard Mrs. Liv- 
ingston speak of you. Let me see, where was it? 

Bess 
{Casually, mistress of herself) 
Perhaps it was after I first met him at Judge 
Wilton's. Mr. Hood is in the Legislature, you know, 

Livingston 
To be sure. I remember your photograph in all the 
newspapers. {Half playfully) But you're rather a 
young man for such a conspicuous and responsible office. 

Hood 
{Trying to be at ease) 
One soon grows older up there. 



go JIM'S BEAST 

Livingston 

{Pleasantly) 
I hope that means wiser; for wisdom, I'm told, is 
only a matter of perspective, and its secret is finding 
the relative importance of things. {With a smile.) 
But, of course, everything must seem vitally important 
at the beginning. Just as each moment of life was 
once the most important thing to these animals. {Be- 
fore Hood can answer.) Are you interested in fossils? 

Hood 
{Eyes him) 
I'm trying to understand their meaning and signifi- 
cance. 

Livingston 
Do you find it difficult ? I see you have a catalogue. 
Do you come here to study them? 

Bess 

{Trying with her skill to relieve the situation) 
Mr. Hood was just telling me he was planning to 

introduce a bill in the Legislature to — to extend the 

wings. 

Livingston 
To extend the wings ? What of ? 

Bess 
Of the Museum, of <:ourse. 



JIM'S BEAST 91 

Livingston 



Indeed ? 



Hood 
{Lying in spite of himself) 
Yes. 

Bess 
{With a reassuring smile) 
He thinks it's a bit cramped here. 

Livingston 
I quite approve. Space is what is needed. But you'll 
find it difficult to get money from the Legislature for 
such purposes. I've tried myself. 

Hood 
Oh, are you interested in museums? 

Livingston 
Didn't you tell him, Bess, about the museum I had 
planned ? 

Bess 

{Beginning to detect his intention) 
No; it slipped my mind. 

Livingston 
{Playfully reproving her) 
And I had such a personal interest in it, too. 



92 JIM'S BEAST 

Hood 
Was it a museum for fossils? 



Livingston 
It was to prevent people from becoming fossils be- 
fore their time. It was a museum of safety appliances. 

Hood 
Industrial ? 

Livingston 
No: domestic. From a very long life, I'd observed 
that in the world and in the home, most everybody, 
through lack of a little precaution, makes a fool of 
himself or herself once or twice in a life. 

Bess 
( Suavely ) 
I thought the average was higher; didn't you, Mr. 
Hood? 

Livingston 
Perhaps the nasty messy mangling is. I'm not sure 
of the mortalities. You see, Mr. Hood — if you are 
interested ? 

Hood 
(With a start) 
Very. 

Livingston 
What I mean is that people cut off a useful hand 
or limb — metaphorically, of course — because they go 



JIM'S BEAST 93 

a little too near the machinery : the machinery of what 
we call the hard facts of life. 

Hood 
And what was your exhibit intended for? 

Livingston 
(Pointedly) 
To have them read the danger signs first. It was 
my plan to indicate how signs should be put up over 
"certain places, like stores and homes and . . . 

Bess 

(Calmly) 
How interesting. What sort of signs were they to 
be, dear? 

Hood 
" Don't Handle," " Watch Your Step." You know 
the sort. You see, I have a theory that if these signs 
were placed about in enough places people would soon 
grow accustomed to carrying them in their mind's 
eye, as it were. (Pointedly) Do you get my mean- 
ing? 

Bess 
But, dear; there are so many signs now. Look at 
these about here for instance. I'm sure people would 
never get anything out of these by carrying them about 
in their heads. 



94 JIM'S BEAST 

Livingston 
It's merely a matter of how much intelligence and 
imagination you bring to signs — otherwise they are 
only words. 

{As Livingston crosses to read sign under the 
Brontosaurus, Hood makes a movement as 
though to speak, but Bess^ who has sat on the 
bench, stops him with an imploring gesture. ) 
Um — highly suggestive, this. {Reading) " Great 
Amphibious Dinosaur Brontosaurus . . . Jurassic 
Period . . . Donated by James Morrow. . . . 
The Brontosaurus lived several million years 
ago. ..." You see {To them) James Morrow and 
the animal have clasped hands over the centuries. Um. 
From this sign, can't you picture the love and devo- 
tion to science that prompted such a gift ? 

Hood 

{Now smiling for the first time) 

As it happens he didn't even know what his money 

was for. While I was waiting here I heard Mrs. 

Morrow say . . . {He stops short as Livingston 

gives him a sharp look.) 

Bess 

{Quickly) 

You see, dear, you were mistaken in that sign. 

Livingston 
( Casually ) 
Perhaps. Curious though how much information 
a man picks up while he waits about. {He crosses over 



JIM'S BEAST 95 

to the case opposite.) I wonder what this one will 
reveal. 

(Hood sees he has been caught in a slip. It 
spurs him into a mood of retaliation. He over- 
comes a momentary hesitation and then shows 
he resolves to tell Livingston everything.) 

Hood 
{With hoarse nervous intensity) 
Mr. Livingston! 



Bob! 



Yes? 



Bess 

{Under her breath to him) 

Livingston 
{Not turning) 



{For a second Hood is about to speak, but he. 
is halted by Bess's look and voices, as the Pro. 
FESSOR, followed by Larry Anderson, enters. 

Larry is a fine strapping doughboy in his 
uniform, on which are two gold service stripes 
and several decorations for bravery. His hand 
is bandaged. They come down. 

As Livingston gives no indication of leaving, 
Bess still sits there while Hood keeps his eyes 
on her husband's back. His silence holds them 
there.) 



96 JIM'S BEAST 

Professor 
But I was expecting at least two hundred. 



Larry 
They got lost on the way. 

Professor 
Lost? 

Larry 
Yes. I left them at the Follies. But I'd heard my 
uncle speak of this place. 

Professor 
(Briffhtens) 
Is your uncle interested in fossils? 

Larry 
Yes. He's a queer bug. He told me to be sure and 
not miss the Chamber of Horrors. You know, where 
all the Kings and Queens and statesmen are embalmed 
in wax? 

Professor 
But, my dear friend, they tore down the Eden Musee 
several years ago. 

Larry 
They did? Why didn't they wait till I got back? 
Haven't you any Chamber of Horrors here? 



JIM'S BEAST 97 

Professor 
No; this is the Paleontological section. 

Larry 

{Looking about) 
Well, now that I'm here maybe this will do as well. 
(Livingston now turns, leaning against the 
case, much interested in the two men. As he 
shows no intention of moving, Bess sits there, 
twisting her handkerchief nervously in her 
hand. Hood is embarrassed and undecided.) 
Trot 'em out, so I can tell uncle I've seen 'em. 

Professor 
{Pointing to Brontosaurus) 
This is a major Dinosaur. 

Larry 

Major what? 

Professor 
The more popular name is the Brontosaurus. 

Larry 
Is that so? {Looking at it.) Some bird! 

Professor 
It's a reptile: its name means Thunder Lizard be- 
cause its mighty tread shook the earth. 

Larry 
Where did it grow? 



98 JIM'S BEAST 

Professor 
From other bones we have found I should say it 
roamed all over the world. This specimen was dug 
up in Wyoming. 

Larry 
What was it doing in Wyoming? 

Professor 

(On his dignity) 

It was possibly overtaken there by an earthquake. 

Larry 
Must have been some earthquake. 

Professor 
Since it was thus buried in silica away from the 
decomposing air and moisture, it was preserved for 
centuries — till we happened to discover it with a pick. 

Larry 
You don't say so! {He looks at it a bit awed.) 
When we were digging trenches in No Man's Land 
we used to find . . . 

Professor 

What? 

Larry 

Not that sort of bones. 



JIM'S BEAST 99 

Professor 
This was in an excellent state of preservation. It 
is sixty feet long and must have weighed when alive 
forty tons. It took seven years to dig it out and mount 
it. We had to be very careful not to break its marvel- 
ous tail. If you'll walk to the other end you'll get an 
idea of its length. We found ninety-seven perfect 
vertebrae. 

Larry 

Ninety-seven ? You don't say so ? 



Professor 
You can count them and see. 

Larry 
Ninety-seven what you call 'ems! Think of that. 
(As he goes up.) And you say it came from Wyo- 
ming? 

Professor 
Yes. 

Larry 

(Proudly) 
That's my state, too. 

(Larry wanders off out of sight looking at the 
fossil. As the Professor starts to folloWj 
Livingston, who has been watching his wife 
and Hood, stops him.) 



loo JIM'S BEAST 

Livingston 
I beg your pardon. I hope you won't mind our 
being interested in what you were saying; but we were 
wondering about the animal ourselves. 

(Hood looks at Bess quickly not knowing what 
Livingston is driving at.) 

Professor 
{Brightening) 
Indeed? I'm afraid our young friend is a bit ir- 
reverent. 

Livingston 
May I ask what is known of its domestic habits? 

Professor 
It was hardly a domestic animal. Its family life 
probably extended only during the infancy of its young. 

Livingston 
Was this a female, by chance? 

Professor 
Yes: the large pelvic development . . . 

Livingston 
This one undoubtedly had young, too? 

Professor 
Of course. But we have never found any of its 
eggs. It was a reptile, you know. 



JIM'S BEAST loi 

Livingston 
But while they were dependent it undoubtedly 
fought to protect its young — like other animals ? 

Professor 
With very few exceptions all the female animals at 
least do that; even those of low intelligence. 

Livingston 
This one couldn't by any chance have been wooed 
away from that obligation by romantic notions? 

Professor 
(Suspiciously) 
This — romantic ? 

Livingston 
But you said it roamed in search of adventure? 

Professor 
(A bit on his dignity) 
Romance lies in the field of the emotions: I am a 
scientist. 

Livingston 
What I mean is : was she faithful to one or promis- 
cuous ? 

Professor 
(Embarrassed) 
Undoubtedly promiscuous. 



102 JIM'S BEAST 

Livingston 
Of course. — ^You see, Bess, the lady existed before 
man made his conventions. 



Professor 
Yes. She could follow all her natural instincts. 

Livingston 
Which were? 

Professor 
Food and fighting. You will observe her large 
maw and small brain. Her main weapon of defense 
was her long powerfully muscled tail. From the teeth, 
we deduce she was mainly herbivorous. 

Livingston 
What did she feed on? 

Professor 
Everything she could pick up. 

Livingston 

{Significantly) 
Think of that, Hood — " everything she could pick 
up." 

Professor 
Young weeds, tender grass and the like. 



JIM'S BEAST 103 

Livingston 
Young weeds — ah, yes, of course. Yet in spite of her 
diet, there is something quite impressive about dead 
things, isn't there? 

Professor 
{Eyeing it) 
They have a dynamic power. 

Livingston 
Exactl}-. You see, Mr. Hood, a dead tree, that has 
in its time given shelter and substance, fights to be 
left standing. It resists the alien ax. Its roots go as 
deep as when they flowed with sap. They also fight 
to prevent themselves from being torn up. They don't 
like to be disturbed — any more than this animal did 
in its cold clayey comfort. {To Professor) You say 
it took seven years? 

Professor 
{Not understanding) 
Yes. We were afraid of hurting it if we were 
careless. 

Livingston 
You were right to be careful: one shouldn't hurt the 
dead. What is its scientific significance? 

Professor 
Nothing but a further proof of the slow processes 
of evolution. 



104 JIM'S BEAST 

Livingston 
(With a smile) 
I am a utilitarian. I see another significance. Pos- 
sibly she was dug up, a thousand centuries after she 
died, just to give you an occupation. 

Professor 
I can't accept that as a working hypothesis. 



Livingston 
Just think, Hood. Several million years dead! 
There it stands for man to look upon ! Possibly that 
was why it existed, after all: for us three to look 
upon. {He glances pointedly at them.) Mr. Hood 
is thinking of introducing a bill in the Legislature to 
increase the wings of the Museum. 

Professor 
That's very kind of him. We have many boxes still 
unpacked in the cellar for lack of room. But, un- 
fortunately, this museum is under the control of the 
city, not the state. 



Livingston 
{Smiling at Hood) 



Indeed ? 



Bess 
{Rising impatiently) 
It's getting late. 



JIM'S BEAST 105 

Larry 

(Re-enterinff) 
I only counted sixty-three. 

Professor 
(Emphatically) 
But there are ninety-seven. 

Larry 
All right. I won't argue it. 

Professor 
If you'll come with me, I'll show you the Tyran- 
nosaurus. They were carnivorous and the greatest 
fighters of them all. 

Larry 
Say, this is a fine place to be showing a fellow who's 
just back from France. 

Bess 

(Sweetly) 
Young man, I'd like to shake your hand. I see you 
have all sorts of lovely decorations. May I ask how 
you got them? 

Larry 
(Embarrassed) 
Oh, I was careless and they pinned a rose on me by 
mistake. 



io6 JIM'S BEAST 

Bess 

You must be very proud of them? 

Larry 
Sure I am. {Looking at the Brontosaurus.) 
But that lizard kinder takes the pride out of a fellow. 

Bess 
But / admire bravery — ^whenever I see it. I'd like 
to hear about how you really got those decorations. 

Larry 
Would you? 

{The gong in the distance rings.) 

Professor 
{In back) 
If you want to see the Tyrannosaurus before we 
close . . . 

Larry 
Oh, all right. {To others) Gee, I'll be glad to get 
out among the live ones. 

Bess 
{Smiling at him) 
So will I. 

Livingston 

{Coldly) 

You should have gone to the Follies, young man. 



JIM'S BEAST 107 

Larry 

Oh, I might have sprained an ankle going to my 
seat. 

{He goes out after the Professor as Bess 
looks after him. Sarah comes in back and 
then goes off. The rear of room darkens, indi- 
cating she has pulled the curtain up. Living- 
ston glances at HoOD who is gazing at Bess 
with a strange enlightenment.) 

Livingston 
I think you're right, Bess : w^e'd better be going. We 
might stop and take the children for a spin before 
it's dark. 

Bess 
Yes. 

Livingston 
{To Hood) 
Are you going our way? 

Hood 

No. 

Bess 
You're sure we can't drop you somewhere? 

Hood 
No. Thank you. 



io8 JIM'S BEAST 

Livingston 
I'm delighted to have met you, Mr. Hood. {Shak- 
ing hands.) I shall follow your work in the Legisla- 
ture with great interest. 

Hood 
Perhaps I may be able to help you with your 
museum. 

Livingston 
Just talking to you has encouraged me greatly. 
Good-bye. There is a big political future waiting a 
young man these days — if he keeps his head. 

Bess 
{Shaking his hand) 
I'm sure my husband is right. 

Hood 
{Looking at her) 
So am I. Quite sure. 

{She turns away, as she sees what his tone of 
finality implies, and looks up at the Bronto- 
SAURUS with a start.) 

Livingston 
What is it, dear? 

Bess 
Nothing. Only it seems to be smiling at us. 



JIM'S BEAST 109 

Livingston 
All skulls grin : it's the eternal laughter of the dead. 

Bess 
Come. (As she starts.) Dear, don't you think it 
might be a good idea to rescue that fine strong good- 
looking young soldier? He must be so lonely and we 
might take him for a drive. 

Livingston 
(A bit wearily at what he sees ahead) 
Oh, yes; if you wish. But I'm sure he should have 
gone to the Follies. 

(He offers her his arm^she takes it. Hood 
watches them as they walk out without turn- 
ing back. He stands there a moment, with a 
cynical smile creeping over his lips. He throws 
the catalogue on the seat. Then he goes to the 
sign before the Brontosaurus.) 

Hood 
(Reading and thinking) 
" Mainly Herbivorous." " Anything she can pick 
up." " Several million years "... 

(As he gazes there, Sarah enters and goes 
out to pull up the other curtain. She 
apparently does so for some red rays slowly 
gather about the fossil. The room is darker. 
She re-enters and stands there looking at him. 
Hood gives a sigh of relief, and determination : 
he puts on his hat, and, with hands in his 
pockets, goes off whistling. 



no JIM'S BEAST 

Sarah stands there as the room darkens. 
Then she goes over near the seat and begins 
to mop.) 

Sarah 
Moppin' and scrubbin' . . . moppin' . . . 

{She pauses and gives a glance at the Bronto- 
SAURUS on whose skull are now centered the 
rays of the setting sun.) 

Holy Mother of Saints! What are you grinnin' at, 

ye dirty heathen? 

{She lifts her arm again in revolt as though to 
throw the mop at it. Then she puts it down 
with a sense of futility. She picks up her 
things and goes off slowly. 

The place is now dark save for the faint light 
on the skull; and even that fades after a little 
while.) 



[Curtain] 



TIDES 



THE PEOPLE 

William White, a famous Internationalist. 
HiLDA^ his wife. 
Wallace, their son. 



SCENE 
At the Whites; spring, 19 17. 



TIDES* 

^ SIMPLY furnished study. The walls are 
yi lined with bookshelves, indicating, by their 
■^ "^ improvised quality, that they have been in- 
.creased as occasion demanded. On these are stacked, 
in addition to the books themselves, many files of papers, 
magazines and " reports." The large work-table, upon 
which rests a double student lamp and a telephone, is 
conspicuous. A leather couch with pillows is opposite, 
pointing towards a doorway which leads into the living- 
room. There is also a doorway in back, which ap-> 
parently opens on the hallway beyond. The room is 
comfortable in spite of its general disorder: it is essen- 
tially the work-shop of a busy man of public affairs. 
The strong sunlight of a spring day comes in through 
the window, flooding the table. 

William White is standing by the window, smok- 
ing a pipe. He is about fifty, of striking appearance : 
the visual incarnation of the popular conception of a 
leader of men. There is authority and strength in the 
lines of his face; his whole personality is commanding ; 
his voice: has all the modulations of a well-trained 
orator; his gestures are sweeping — for, even in private 
conversation, he is habitually conscious of an audience. 

* Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. ' 



114 TIDES 

Otherwise J he is simple and engaging, with some indi- 
cation of his humble origin. 

On the sofa opposite, with a letter in her hand, 
Hilda White, his wife, is seated. She is somewhat 
younger in fact, though in appearance she is as one who 
has been worn a bit by the struggle of many years. Her 
manner contrasts with her husband's: her inheritance of 
delicate refinement is ever present in her soft voice and 
gentle gesture. Yet she, too, suggests strength — the 
sort which will endure all for a fixed intention. 

It is obvious throughout that she and her husband 
have been happy comrades in their life together and that 
a deep fundamental bond has united thent in spite of 
the different social spheres from which each has sprung. 

White 
{Seeing she has paused) 
Go on, dear; go on. Let's hear all of it. 

Hilda 
Oh, what's the use, Will? You know how dif- 
ferently he feels about the war. 

White 
( With quiet sarcasm ) 
But it's been so many years since your respectable 
brother has honored me even with the slightest allu- 
sion . . . 

Hilda 
If you care for what he says — {Continuing to read 
the letter) -^'^ Remember, Hilda, you are an American. 



TIDES 115 

I don't suppose your husband considers that an honor; 
but I do." 



White 

{Interrupting) 

And what kind of an American has he been in times 

of peace? He's wrung forty per cent profit out of his 

factory and fought every effort of the workers to 

organize. Ah, these smug hypocrites! 

Hilda 
{Reading) 
" His violent opposition to America going in has been 
disgrace enough " 

White 
But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes. 

Hilda 
Let me finish, dear, since you want it. {Reading) 
" — been disgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm 
writing in the faint hope, if you are not too much under 
his influence, that you will persuade him to keep his 
mouth shut. This country will tolerate no difference 
of opinion now. You radicals had better get on board 
the band wagon. It's prison or acceptance." {She 
stops reading.) He's right, dear. There will be 
nothing more intolerant than a so-called democracy at 
war. 



ii6 TIDES 

White 
By God! It's superb! Silence for twenty years and 
now he writes his poor misguided sister for fear she 
will be further disgraced by her radical husband. 

Hilda 
We mustn't descend to his bitterness. 

White 
No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten 
doctrine of forgiving my enemies. 

Hilda 
He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it all dif- 
ferently. 

White 
I was thinking of his calm contempt for m.e these 
twenty years — ever since you married me — " out of 
your class," as he called it. 

Hilda 
Oh, hush, Will, I've been so happy with you I 
can bear him no ill will. Besides, doesn't his attitude 
seem natural ? You mustn't forget that no man in this 
country has fought his class more than you. That 
hurts — especially coming from an acquired relative. 

White 
Yes; that aggravates the offense. And I'll tell you 
something you may not know: {Bitterly) Whenever 



TIDES 117 

I've spoken against privilege and wealth it's been his 
pudgy, comfortable face I've shaken my fist at. He's 
been so damned comfortable all his life. 

Hilda 
(She looks at him in surprise) 
Why, Will, you surely don't envy him his comfort, 
do you ? I can't make you out. What's come over you 
these last weeks? You've always been above such 
personal bitterness; even when you were most con- 
demned and ridiculed. If it were anybody but you 
I'd think you had done something you were ashamed of. 

White 
What do you mean? 

Hilda 
Haven't you sometimes noticed that is what bitter- 
ness to another means: a failure within oneself? (He 
goes over to chair and sits without answering.) I can 
think of you beaten by outside things — that sort of 
failure we all meet; but somehow I can never think 
of you failing yourself. You've been so brave and self- 
reliant : you've fought so hard for the truth. 

White 
{Tapping letter) 
But he thinks he knows the truth, too. 

Hilda 
He's also an intense nature. 



ii8 TIDES 

White 
{Thoughtfully after a pause) 
Yet there is some truth in what he says. 

Hilda 

{Smiling) 
But you didn't like it — coming from him? 

White 
It will be different with you and me now that 
America's gone in. 

Hilda 
Yes. It will be harder for us here; for hate is 
always furthest from the trenches. But you and I are 
not the sort who would compromise to escape the perse- 
cution which is the resource of the non-combatant. 
{The phone rings: he looks at his watch.) 

White 
That's for me. 

Hilda 
Let me. {She goes.) It may be Wallace. {At 
phone.) Yes: this is ii6 Chelsea. Long Distance? 
{He starts as she says to him) It must be our 
boy. {At phone.) Who? Oh — ^Mr. William White ? 
Yes: he'll be here. {She hangs up receiver.) She'll 
ring when she gets the connection through. 

White 
{Turning away) 
It takes so long these days. 



TIDES 119 

Hilda 
Funny he didn't ask for me. 

White 
What made you think it was Wallace? 

Hilda 
I took it for granted. He must be having a hard 
time at college with all the boys full of war fever. 

White 
And a father with my record. 

Hilda 
He should be proud of the example. He has more 
than other boys to cling to these days when everybody 
is losing his head as the band plays and the flag is 
waved. He won't be carried away by it. He'll re- 
member all we taught him. Ah, Will, when I think 
we now have conscription — as they have in Germany 
— I thank God every night our boy is too young for the 
draft. 

White 
But when his time comes what will he do? 

Hilda 
( Calmly ) 
He will do it with courage. 

White 
{Referring to her brother s letter) 
Either prison or acceptance! 



I20 TIDES 

Hilda 
I would rather have my son in prison than have him 
do what he felt was wrong. Wouldn't you? 

White 
(Evasively) 
We won't have to face that problem for two years. 

Hilda 
And when it comes — if he falters — I'll give him 
these notes of that wonderful speech you made at the 
International Conference in igio. {Picking it up.) 
I was looking through it only this morning. 

White 
( Troubled) 
Oh, that speech. 

Hilda 
{Glancing through it with enthusiasm) 
" All wars are imperialistic in origin. Do away 
with overseas investments, trade routes, private control 
of ammunition factories, secret diplomacy ..." 

White 
Don't you see that's all dead wood? 

Hilda 
(Not heeding him) 
This part gave me new strength when I thought 
of Wallace. {Reading with eloquence.) " War will 



TIDES 121 

stop when young men put Internationalism above Na- 
tionality, the law of God above the dictates of states- 
men, the law of love above the law of hate, the law of 
self-sacrifice above the law of profit. There must be 
no boundaries in man's thought. Let the young men 
of the world once throw down their arms, let them 
once refuse to point their guns at human hearts, and 
all the boundaries of the world will melt away and 
peace will find a resting-place in the hearts of men ! " 

White 
{Taking it from her) 
And I made you believe it! What silly prophets 
we radicals were. (He tears it up.) Mere scraps of 
paper, dear ; scraps of paper, now. 

Hilda 
But it was the truth ; it still is the truth. 

White 
Hilda, there's something I want to talk over very 
very seriously with you. I've been putting it off. 

Hilda 
Yes, dear? (The outer door is heard to bang.) 
Listen: wasn't that the front door? 

White 
Perhaps it's the maid? 

Hilda 
{A bit nervously) 
No: she's upstairs. No one rang. Please see. 



122 TIDES 

White 
{Smiling) 
Now don't worry! It can't possibly be the Secret 
Service. 

Hilda 
One never knows in war times what to expect. I 
sometimes feel I am in a foreign country. 

(White goes slowly to the door in back and 
opens it. Wallace, their son, with valise in 
hand, is standing there, as though he had hesi- 
tated to enter. 

He is a fine clean-cut young fellow, with his 
father s physical endowment and his mother's 
spiritual intensity. The essential note he strikes 
is that of honesty. It is apparent he is under 
the pressure of a momentous decision which has 
brought him unexpectedly home from college.) 



Wallace ! 



Hello! Dad. 



White 



Wallace 
{Shaking hands) 



Hilda 

Wallace! My boy! 

(Wallace drops valise and goes to his mother* s 
arms. ) 



TIDES 123 

Wallace 
{With deep feeling) 
Mother! 

White 
{After a pause) 
Well, boy ; this is unexpected. We were just talking 
of you. 

Wallace 
Were you? 

Hilda 
I'm so glad to see you, so glad. 

Wallace 
Yes . . yes . . but . . . 

White 
There's nothing the matter? 

Hilda 
You've had trouble at college? 

Wallace 
Not exactly. But I couldn't stand it there. I've 
left — for good. 

White 
I was sure that would happen. 



124 TIDES 

Hilda 
Tell us. You know we'll understand. 

Wallace 
Dad, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk it over with 
mother first. 

White 
Of course, old fellow, that's right. She'll stand by 
you just as she's always stood by me — all these years. 
{He kisses her.) I . . I ... 

{He smooths her hair gently, looking into her 
eyes as she smiles up at him.) 
We mustn't let this war hurt all we've had together 
— you and I 

Hilda 
{Smiling and turning towards her son) 
And Wallace. 

White 
And Wallace. Yes. (Wallace looks away guilt- 
ily.) Let me know when the phone comes. 

{He goes out hastily. She closes the door 
after him and then comes to Wallace, who 
has sat down, indicating he is troubled.) 

Hilda 
They made it hard for you at college? 

Wallace 
I don't know how to tell you. 



TIDES 125 

Hilda 
I understand. The flag waving, the patriotic 
speeches, the billboards advertising the glory of war, 
the call of adventure offered to youth, the pressure 
of your friends — all made it hard for you to be called 
a slacker. 

Wallace 
No, mother. I wasn't afraid of what they could 
call me. That was easy. 

Hilda 
{Proudly) 
You are your father's son ! 

Wallace 
Mother, I can't stand the thought of killing, you 
know that. And I couldn't forget all you've told me. 
That's why I've had to think this out all these months 
alone; why I've hesitated longer than most fellows. 
The only thing I was really afraid of was being wrong. 
But now I know I'm right and I'm going clean through 
to the limit. 

Hilda 
As your father said I'll stand by you — whatever it is 
— if only you feel it's right. 

Wallace 
Will you? Will you, mother? No matter what 
happens? {She nods.) I knew you would. {Taking 
her hand.) Then mother, listen. I've volunteered. 



126 TIDES 

Hilda 

{Shocked) 
Volunteered ! 

Wallace 
Yesi I leave for training-camp to-night. 

Hilda 
To-night? 

Wallace 
Yes, mother. Once I made up my mind I couldn't 
wait to be drafted. I wanted to offer myself. I didn't 
want to be made to go, 

Hilda 
{Hardly grasping it) 
But you are too young. 

Wallace 
I lied about my age. You and father can stop me 
if you tell the truth. That's why I've come back. I 
want you to promise you won't tell. 

Hilda 
You ask me to aid you in what I don't believe ? 

Wallace 
But you said you'd stick by me if / thought it was 
right. 

Hilda 
But . . . 



TIDES 127 

Wallace 
{With fervor) 
And I tell you, mother, I do feel it was right for 
America to go in. I see now we ought to have declared 
war when they crushed Belgium. Yes; we ought to 
have gone in when the Lusitania was sunk. But we've 
been patient. The President tried to keep us out of 
it until we had to go in to save our self-respect. We 
had to go in to show we were men of honor, not pussy 
cats. We had to go in to show the world the Stars 
and Stripes wasn't a dishrag on which the Germans 
could dry their bloody hands! 

Hilda 
{Gazing at him incredulously) 
You hate them as much as that? 

Wallace 
Hate? No, mother, no. {As though questioning 
himself.) I really haven't any hate for the German 
people. People are just people everywhere, I suppose, 
and they're tricked and fooled by their rotten govern- 
ment, as the President says. 

Hilda 
Then why fight them? 

Wallace 
Because they're standing back of their government, 
doing what it says. And they've got to be licked to 
show them what kind of a government they have. 



128 TIDES 

Hilda 
At least you have no hate in your heart — that's 
something. 

Wallace 
Oh, yes, I have, mother. But it isn't for the poor 
devils I've got to shoot. It's for the stay-at-home 
fellow here in America who sits in a comfortable arm- 
chair, who applauds patriotic sentiment, cheers the 
flag and does nothing for his country but hate and hate 
— while we fight for him. That's the fellow I'll hate 
all right when I sit in the trenches. And that's why 
I couldn't look myself in the face if I stayed out a day 
longer; why, I've got to go in; why, I'm going to die 
if I must, because everybody ought to be willing to die 
for what he believes. 

Hilda 
You are my son, too! For I would willingly have 
died if it could have kept us out of this war. 

Wallace 
Yes. I am your son, too. And that's why you 
wouldn't respect me if I didn't go through. 

Hilda 
No. I wouldn't have respected you. But . . . 
but . . . {She breaks a bit, then controls herself.) 
You are quite sure you're doing what's right? 

Wallace 

( Tenderly ) 

Would I have been willing to hurt you like this? 



TIDES 129 

Hilda 
{Holding him close to her) 
My boy; my boy! 

Wallace 
It'll be all right, mother. 

Hilda 
Ah, yes. It will be all right. Nothing matters in 
time: it's only the moments that hurt. 

Wallace 
{After a pause) 
Then you won't tell my real age, or interfere? 

Hilda 
I respect your right to decide your own life. 

Wallace 
{Joyed) 
Mother ! 

Hilda 
I respect your dedication ; your willingness to sacri- 
fice for your beliefs. Why, Wallace, it would be a 
crime for me to stand in your way — even with my 
mother's love. {He kisses her.) Do it all as cleanly 
as you can. I'll hope and pray that you'll come back 
to me. {Half breaking down and taking him in her 
arms.) Oh, my boy; my boy. Let me hold you. 
You'll never know how hard it is for a mother. 



I30 TIDES 

Wallace 
{Gently) 
But other mothers send their boys. 

Hilda 
Most of them believe in what their sons are fighting 
for. Mothers have got to believe in it; or else how 
could they stand the thought of bayonets stuck into the 
bodies they brought forth in their own blood ? ( There 
is a pause till she controls herself.) I'll help you get 
your things together. 



And father? 



He will be angry. 



Wallace 



Hilda 



Wallace 
But you will make him understand? 

Hilda 
I'll try. Yet you must be patient with him if he 
doesn't understand. Don't ever forget his long fight 
against all kinds of Prussianism when 'you hear him 
reviled by those who have always hated his radicalism 
and who, now, under the guise of patriotism, are 
trying to render him useless for further attacks on 
them after the war. He's been persecuted so by them 
— even back in the days when our press was praising 
Germany and our distinguished citizens were dining at 



TIDES 131 

the Emperor's table. Don't forget all this, my boy. 
These days are hard for him — and me — harder perhaps 
than for you who go out to die in glorj'^ and praise. 
There are no flags for us, no music that stirs, no ap- 
plause; but we too suffer in silence for what we believe. 
And it is only the strongest who can survive. — Now 
call your father. 

Wallace 
{Goes to door) 
Dad! (He leaves door open and turns to his 
mother.) I'll be getting my things together. {There 
is a pause. White enters.) Dad, mother has some- 
thing to ask you. {He looks from father to mother.) 
Thanks, little mother. 

{He kisses her and goes out taking the valise. 
His father and mother stand facing each other.) 

Hilda 
Wallace has volunteered. {He looks at her keenly.) 
He has lied about his age. He wants us to let him go. 

White 
Volunteered ? 

Hilda 
Yes; he leaves to-night. 

White 
{After a pause) 
And what have you told him? 



132 




TIDES 


That he 


must go. 


Hilda 


You can 


say that? 


White 


It is the 


Hilda 
way he sees it. 


Hilda. 


{Going to 


White 

her sympathetically) 



Hilda 
{Looking up at him tenderly) 
Oh, Will, do you remember when he was born? 
{He soothes her.) And all we nursed him through 
afterwards; and all we taught him; all we tried to 
show him about war. {With a shrug of her shoul- 
ders.) None of it has mattered. 

White 
War is stronger than all that. 

Hilda 
So we mustn't blame him. You won't blame him ? 

White 
He fears I will? 



TIDES 133 

Hilda 
He has always feared you a little though he loves 
you deeply. You mustn't oppose him, dear. You 
won't ? 

White 
(Wearily) 
Is there any use opposing anybody or anything these 
days? 

Hilda 
We must wait till the storm passes. 

White 
That's never been my way. 

Hilda 
No. You've fought all your life. But now we 
must sit silent together and wait; wait for our boy to 
come back. Will, think of it; we are going to have 
a boy " over there," too. 

White 
Hilda, hasn't it ever struck you that we may have 
been all wrong? (She looks at him, as she holds his 
hand.) What could these frail hands do? How 
could we poor little King Canutes halt this tide that 
has swept over the world ? Isn't it better, after all, that 
men should fight themselves out; bring such desolation 
upon themselves that they will be forced to see the 
futility of war? May it not become so terrible that 
men — the workers, I mean — will throw down their 



134 TIDES 

worn-out weapons of their own accord ? Won't perma- 
nent peace come through bitter experience rather than 



talk — talk — talk ? 



Hilda 

{Touching the torn pages of his speech and smiling) 
Here is your answer to your own question. 

White 
Oh, that was all theory. We're in now. You say 
yourself we can't oppose it. Isn't it better if we try to 
direct the current to our own ends rather than sink by 
trying to swim against it? 

Hilda 
Oh, yes; it would be easier for one who could com- 
promise. 

White 
But haven't we radicals been too intolerant of com- 
promise ? 

Hilda 
That has been your strength. And it is your 
strength I'm relying on now that Wallace . . . 
Shall I call him? 

White 
{Significantly) 
No; wait. 



TIDES 135 

Hilda 

{Apprehensive at his turn) 
Oh, yes. Before he came you said there was some- 
thing . . . ? ( The phone rings. They both look 
at it.) That's for you. 



White 
{Not moving) 



Yes. 



Hilda 
{Hardly believing his attitude) 
Is — is it private? 

White 
No. Perhaps it will be easier this way. {He hesi- 
tates, then goes to phone as she stands expectant.) Yes. 
Yes. Long Distance? Washington? {Her lips re- 
peat the word.) Yes. This is William White. Hello. 
Yes. Is this the Secretary speaking? Oh, I appreciate 
the honor of having you confirm it personally. Sena- 
tor Bough is chairman? At his request? Ah, yes; 
war makes strange bedfellows. Yes. The passport 
and credentials? Oh, I'll be ready. Yes. Good-bye. 
{He hangs up the receiver and looks at her.) 

Hilda 
You, too! 

White 
I've been trying to tell you these last weeks; but 
I couldn't somehow. 



136 TIDES 

Hilda 
You were ashamed? 

White 
No, dear; only I knew it would hurt you. 

Hilda 
I'm not thinking of myself but of you. You are 
going to be part of this war ? 

White 
I'm going to do what I can to help finish it. 

Hilda 
By compromising with the beliefs of a lifetime? 

White 
No, dear; not that. I've accepted the appointment 
on this commission because I'm going to accept facts. 

Hilda 
Have the facts of war changed or is it you? 

White 
Neither has changed; but I'm going to act differ- 
ently. I'm going to be part of it. Yes. I'm going to 
help direct the current. 

Hilda 
I can't believe what I am hearing. Is it you, 
William White, speaking? You who, for twenty 
years, have stood against all war ! 



TIDES 137 

White 



Yes. 



Hilda 
And now when the test comes you are going to lend 
yourself to it! You of all men! 

White 
Hilda, dear; I didn't expect you to accept it easily; 
but I think I can make you see if you will let me. 

Hilda 
{Poignantly) 
If I will let you! Why, Will, I must understand; 
I must. 

White 
Perhaps it will be difficult at first — with your 
standards. 

Hilda 

But my standards were yours, Will. You gave 
them to me. You taught me. You took a young girl 
who loved you. You showed her the truth, and she 
followed you and has followed you gladly through 
hard years of struggle and poverty because of those 
ideals. And now you talk of my standards! Will, 
don't you see, I must understand ? 

White 
Dear, standards are relative things; they differ with 
circumstance. 



138 TIDES 

Hilda 
Have your ideals only been old clothes you change 
to suit the weather? 

White 
It's the end we must keep in mind. / haven't 
changed or compromised one bit in that. I'm work- 
ing in changed conditions, that's all ; working with all 
my heart to do away with all war. 

Hilda 
By fighting one? 

White 
(With eloquence) 
Yes. Because it is necessary. I've come to see we 
can't argue war out of the world with words. We've 
got to beat it out of the world. It can't be done with 
our hands lifted up in prayer; it can only be done 
with iron hands crushing it down. War is the mood 
of the world. Well, I'm going to fight in my fashion. 
And when it is over I'm going to keep on fighting; for 
the next war will be greater than this. It will be 
economic revolution. It will be the war of capital 
and labor. And I mean to be ready. 

Hilda 
{Listening incredulously) 
And to get ready you are willing to link arms now 
with Senator Bough — a man you once called the lackey 



TIDES 139 

of Wall Street — a man who has always opposed every 
democratic principle . . . 

White 
Yes. Don't you see the Government is beginning 
to realize they can't do without us ? Don't you see my 
appointment is an acknowledgment of the rising tide 
of radicalism in the world? Don't you see, with the 
prestige that will come to me from this appointment, 
I will have greater power after the war; power to 
bring about the realization of all our dreams; power 
to demand — even at the Peace table itself, perhaps — 
that all wars must end ? 

Hilda 
Do you actually believe you will have any power 
with your own people when you have compromised 
them for a temporary expediency? 

White 
{With a gesture) 
The leader must be wiser than the people who 
follow. 

Hilda 

So, contempt for your people is the first thing your 
new power has brought you! {He makes a gesture of 
denial.) You feel you are above them — not of them. 
Do you believe for a moment that Senator Bough has 
anything but contempt for you, too? 



I40 TIDES 

White 
{Confidently) 
He needs me. 

Hilda 
Needs you ? Don't you understand why he had you 
appointed on that committee? He wanted to get you 
out of the way. 

White 
Isn't that an acknowledgment of my power ? 

Hilda 
Yes. You're a great asset now. You're a " re- 
formed " radical. Why, Will, he'll use you in the 
capitals of Europe to advertise his liberalism; just as 
the prohibitionist exhibits a reformed drunkard. 

White 
And I tell you, Hilda, after the war I shall be 
stronger than he is, stronger than any of them. 

Hilda 
No man is strong unless he does what he feels is 
right. No, no. Will; you've convicted yourself with 
your own eloquence. You've wanted to do this for 
some reason. But it isn't the one you've told me. 
No; no. 

White 
{Angrily) 
You doubt my sincerity? 



TIDES 141 

Hilda 

No; only the way you have read yourself. 



White 
Well, if you think I've tried to make it easy for my- 
self you are mistaken. Is it easy to pull out of the 
rut and habit of years? Easy to know my friends will 
jeer and say I've sold out? Easy to have you mis- 
understand? {Goes to her.) Hilda, I'm doing this 
for their good. I'm doing it — just as Wallace is — 
because I feel it's right. 

Hilda 
No ; you shouldn't say that. You are not doing this 
for the same reason Wallace is. He believes in this 
war. He has accepted it all simply without a ques- 
tion. If you had seen the look in his eyes, you would 
have known he was a dedicated spirit; there was no 
shadow, no doubt; it was pure flame. But you! You 
believe differently! You can't hush the mind that for 
twenty years has thought no war ever could henceforth 
be justified. You can't give yourself to this war with- 
out tricking yourself with phrases. You see power in it 
and profit for yourself. {He protests.) That's j^our 
own confession. You are only doing what is expedient 
— not what is right. Oh, Will, don't compare your 
motives with those of our son. I sent him forth, with- 
out a word of protest, because he wishes to die for his 
own ideals: you are killing your own ideals for the 
ideals of others! {She turns away.) Oh, Will, that's 



142 TIDES 

what hurts. If you were only like him, I — I could 
stand it. 



White 
{Quietly, after a pause) 
I can't be angry at you — even when you say such 
things. You've been too much a part of my life, and 
work, and I love you, Hilda. You know that, don't 
you, dear? {He sits beside her and takes her hand.) 
I knew it would be difficult to make you understand. 
Only once have I lacked courage and that was when 
I felt myself being drawn into this and they offered me 
the appointment. For then I saw I must tell you. 
You know I never have wanted to cause you pain. 
But when you asked me to let Wallace go, I thought 
you would understand my going, too. — Oh, perhaps 
our motives are different; he is young: war has caught 
his imagination ; but, I, too, see a duty, a way to accom- 
plish my ideals. 

Hilda 
Let's leave ideals out of this now. It's like bitter 
enemies praying to the same God as they kill each 
other. 

White 
Yes. War is full of ironies. I see that: Wallace 
can't. It's so full of mixed motives, good and bad. 
Yes. I'll grant all that. Only America has gone in. 
The whole tide was against us, dear. It is sweeping 
over the world : a brown tide of khaki sweeping every- 



TIDES 143 

thing before it. All my life I've fought against the 
current. (Wearily) And now that I've gone in, too, 
my arms seem less tired. Yes ; and except for the pain 
I've caused you, I've never in all my life felt so — so 
happy. 

(Then she understands. She slowly turns to 

him, with tenderness in her eyes.) 

Hilda 
Oh, now. Will, I do understand. Now I see the 
real reason for what you've done. 

White 
(Defensively) 
I've given the real reason. 

Hilda 
(Her heart going out to him) 
You poor tired man. My dear one. Forgive me, 
if I made it difficult for you ; if I said cruel words. I 
ought to have guessed ; ought to have seen what life has 
done to you. (He looks up, not understanding her 
words.) Those hands of yours first dug a living out 
of the ground. Then they built houses and grew 
strong because you were a workman — a man of the 
people. You saw injustice and all your life you fought 
against those who had the power to inflict it : the press ; 
the comfortable respectables, like my brother; and 
even those of your own group who opposed you — ^you 
fought them all. And they look at you as an outsider, 
an alien in your own country. Oh, Will, I know how 



144 TIDES 

hard it has been for you, to be always on the de- 
fensive, against the majority. It is hard to live alone 
away from the herd. It does tire one to the bone and 
make one envious of the comfort and security they 
find by being together. 

White 
Yes . . but . . . 

Hilda 
Now the war comes and with it a chance to get 
back; to be part of the majority; to be welcomed with 
open arms by those who have fought you ; to go back 
with honor and praise. And, yes, to have the warmth 
and comfort of the crowd. That's the real reason 
you're going in. You're tired and worn out with the 
fight. I know. I understand now. 

White 
(^Earnestly) 
If I thought it was that, I'd kill myself. 

Hilda 
There's been enough killing already. I have to 
understand it somehow to accept it at all. 

{He stares at her, wondering at her words. 
She smiles. He goes to a chair and sits down, 
gazing before him. The music of " Over 
There" is now heard outside in the street, 
approaching nearer and nearer. It is a military 
hand. Wallace excitedly rushes in dressed in 
khaki.) 



TIDES " 145 

Wallace 
Mother, mother. The boys are coming down the 
street. {Sees father.) Dad! Mother has told you? 

Hilda 
{Calmly) 
Yes; I've told him. 

Wallace 
And you're going to let me go, Dad? 

Hilda 
Yes. 

Wallace 
Oh, thanks, Dad. {Grasping his hand.) I knew 
mother would make you see. {Music nearer.) 
Listen! Isn't that a great tune? Lifts you up on 
your feet and carries you over there. Gee, it just gets 
into a fellow and makes him want to run for his gun 
and charge over the top. {He goes to balcony.) Look! 
They're nearing here ; all ready to sail with the morn- 
ing tide. They've got their helmets on. You can't 
see the end of them coming down the avenue. Oh, 
thank God, I'm going to be one of them soon. Thank 
God ! I'm going to fight for Uncle Sam and the Stars 
and Stripes. {Calls off.) Hurrah! {To them.) Oh, 
I wish I had a flag. Why haven't we got a flag here — 
Hurrah ! ! 

{As he goes out on the balcony the music plays 
louder. Hilda has gone to White during this. 



[46 TIDES 

arid stands behind him, with her arms down his 
arms, as he sits there, gazing before him.) 

Hilda 
{Fervently) 
Oh, Will, if I could only feel it as he does ! ! 

{The music begins to trail off as White ten- 
derly takes hold of her hands.) 



[Curtain] 



AMONG THE LIONS 



THE PEOPLE 

Patricia Tenner, a popular " star." 

Mrs. Emily Frowde, " a lion-hunter" 

Miss Eva Stannard, about whom there has been talk. 

The Brown One, ] 

The Blue One, V as they appear to Patricia. 

The Green One, J 

M. Mavosky, an artist " who's all the rage." 

George Silverton, a musician; an old friend of 

Patricia. 
Other Guests. 



SCENE 

Drawing-room at Mrs. Frowde's during a small 
reception given to Patricia Tenner. A late afternoon. 



AMONG THE LIONS* 

y^iV elaborate drawing-room is disclosed, with 

>^W bare high-paneled walls, relieved only by 
attractive candle-clusters and a stretch of 
tapestry. At back is an alcove effect in which a piano 
is seen, with' the usual decorations of a music-room 
suggested beyond. There are two openings which lead 
to the hallways and street doors without. Opposite 
these is a stone-built fireplace with a smoldering log 
blaze and attractive " British Soldier " andirons. By 
this rests a deep chair which tones with the other 
furnishings. A tea-table, resplendent with silver, stands 
obliquely in the center, with lighted candles. Appro- 
priate ferns and flowers rest in likely places. 

George Silverton is playing a Chopin etude in the 
music-room; about the opening are grouped Patricia 
Tenner, Mrs. Frowde, The Brown One, The 
Green One, The Blue One and others. They are 
listening, duly impressed by the touch of an expert. 

Mavosky, the artist, is standing off alone by the tea- 
table complacently munching a macaroon and eyeing 
Patricia. 

Mavosky is about forty, tall, with large eyes and a 
pointed beard. There is a slight Russian accent in his 
speech and his manners have the studied spontaneity of 

* Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. 



I50 AMONG THE LIONS 

a professional foreigner exploiting a new field. As he 
continues to watch. Patricia with a cynical smile, she 
leaves the group unobserved by the others and moves 
towards the low, deep chair near the fireplace. 

Patricia has the large features of a stage-beauty, 
which enhance her appearance before the footlights. 
Her hair is parted and coiled low on her neck. She is 
elegantly gowned, and carries a long, elaborate scarf 
which is hung across her back and held by each arm. 
She uses this continually to increase her instinctive 
plasticity. As she turns there is a serious expression 
upon her face, as though, for once she had been her true 
self. 

Patricia 
{Almost inaudibly) 
George Silverton. Poor George! 

(She seems to feel Mavosky's eyes; but again 
mistress of herself, turns, and smiles invitingly. 
Then she drapes herself artistically in the chair. 
Mavosky comes with the plate of macaroons, 
which she declines with a pretty gesture. He 
replaces them on the table, and, seeing no one 
is watching, returns to her, speaking softly at 
the music continues.) 

Mavosky 
Quel charmef 

Patricia 
The ffown or the pose? 



AMONG THE LIONS 151 

Mavosky 
Mademoiselle Tenner, in your profession they are 
inseparable. 

Patricia 
We actresses belong only to each moment we act. 
It is your profession which fastens us as we should be 
in the memory of others. ^ 

Mavosky 
Perhaps that is why my portraits please. 

Patricia 
( Ban tering charm ingly ) 
And you only take celebrities, Monsieur Mavosky. 

Mavosky 
I wish to go to posterity on the hem of their 
garments. 

Patricia 

{Smiling) 
Some day / may wear a gown that pleases you, eh? 
{He starts to answer, but the music stops and 
the others applaud in perfect taste. He offers 
his hand in parting, as she seems to invite it.) 

Mavosky 
Au revoir. 



152 AMONG THE LIONS 

Patricia 
{With a fascinating smile) 
Deja? 

{He bows far over her hand and their eyes meet 
with interest. As he turns away, while the 
others come into the room, Patricia gives a 
secret smile of satisfaction, as though she had 
obtained her intention. Then she sighs wearily, 
bored, as she glances at the others. 

Mrs. Frowde, the hostess is about fifty, look- 
ing forty; rather large and as self-contained as 
possible in her loose black tea-gown. She is a 
nervous woman with an apparent seriousness in 
her social undertakings. Her eyes are continu- 
ally criticizing and her hands correcting. She 
has a gracious voice, and towards Patricia, at 
least, a possessive protectiveness. 

The Brown One has a good profile from 
her chin up, but otherwise, in spite of lacing, is 
stout. Her tan gown makes up in elegance 
what it lacks in outline. 

The clinging gown of The Blue One ac- 
centuates the languid manner she affects. There 
is a satisfied, set smile upon her aquiline face and 
her voice maintains a gentle, persistent tremolo. 

The Green One is younger than the others 
and in general indefiniteness of bearing and ap- 
pearance merely suggests money. Her olive- 



AMONG THE LIONS I53 

trimmed gown is very simple, but is caught by a 
conspicuous jade belt. 

These, with the other guests who gradually 
depart, suggest the atmosphere of a conventional 
tea.) 

Omnes 
{Enthusiastically to Silverton) 
How delightful ! How wonderful! 

(George Silverton is medium-sized, in the 
late thirties, with a fine, sensitive face and short- 
cropped hair. He is retiring in manner and 
seems ill at ease in the present company. 
Towards Patricia, however, this disappears 
and it is evident he has known her well.) 

The Brown One 

{Shrugging her shoulders, and splashing each sentence 

with jerky gestures throughout.) 

He has such a je-ne-sais-quoi. Don't you think? 

The Blue One 
{In a shocked tone) 
I'd hardly put it that way. 

Silverton 

( To The Brown One) 

You compliment me. , :' 



154 AMONG THE LIONS 

Mrs. Frowde 
Didn't Pachmann play that at the Philharmonic 
Friday ? 

The Green One 
How should I know? 

Mrs. Frowde 
I wish they'd announce what they play as an encore 
so I can recognize it. 

The Brown One 
We need a Chopin in this country. Do you compose, 
Mr. Silverton? 

The Blue One 
{Who has come down to Patricia) 
It must be splendid to be a real artist, Miss Tenner, 
instead of just having money. We have to be so 
careful. 

(Patricia smiles and nods understandingly 
throughout. SiLVERTON, apparently ill at ease, 
comes beside Patricia as Mavosky is speaking 
to Mrs. Frowde and the others at the table.) 
Oh, Mr. Silverton, your playing made me so — so — 
{at a loss for words) don't you know? 

Silverton 

{Stiffly) 
Music is the only mental adventure in good and evil 
which some of us ever have. 



AMONG THE LIONS i55 

The Blue One 
How clever of you ! I wonder if that's why I adore 
Tristan? You will come to my next Thursday and 
play for me? / need adventure. (She laughs, tremu- 
lously) I'll have some people there if I may tell them 
you are coming. 

SiLVERTON 

{Hiding his displeasure) 
Charmed. 

The Blue One 
{To Patricia) 
You have a beastly rehearsal then, haven't you ? So 
sorry. 

(Patricia smiles as though regretful, and the 
three continue talking.) 

Mrs. Frowde 
{By the table, shaking Mavosky's hand) 

Must you go? 

Mavosky 
Only till luncheon Tuesday. 

Mrs. Frowde 

{Aside to him) 

It was good of you to meet her. 

Mavosky 
{Looking across to Patricia) 
Miss Tenner is a poem in pose. 



156 AMONG THE LIONS 

The Brown One 
(Who has been manceuvering to be in his line of de- 
parture, as Mrs. Frowde turns to give The Green 
One a cup of tea.) 

M. Mavosky, I've heard if you wait at Port Said 
you'll sooner or later meet everyone you know. Here, 
at Mrs. Frowde's, one only meets those one wishes, 
nest-ce pas? 

Mavosky 
{Gallantly) 
You American women! 

The Brown One 
I'll bring my husband to see your portraits. May I? 

Mavosky 
{Bowing) 
You speak for his taste. 

The Brown One 

{Pleased) 
He actually threatens to have one of me, and wishes 
the very best that can possibly be painted. 

{They exchange pleasantries , and as Mavosky 
passes out he glances towards Patricia, who has 
been watching him, while Silverton has en- 
gaged The Blue One^ zuho by now has joined 
The Green One and The Brown One and 
Mrs. Frowde at the table. They laugh as 
Silverton and Patricia find a chance to 
snatch a few words unheard.) 



AMONG THE LIONS 157 

SiLVERTON 

{Referring to The Blue One) 
Who is she that I must pay for my tea by playing 
for her Thursday? 

Patricia 
{Flippantly) 
Her name begins with T. Her husband owns Th3 
Star. It's been good to me. I call her The Blue 
One; I no longer remember names. People are color 
to me. See the stout one — like an overfed question 
mark? She seems brown all through. Have you 
heard her talk? With her {imitating and shrugging 
shoulders) " je-ne-sais-quois " ? No one who is fat 
should speak French. And The Green One — ugh! — 
with the jade life-belt! 

SiLVERTON 

{Seriously) 
Pat, why do you still come to these stupid affairs? 

Patricia 
There are still things / may want, too. 

SiLVERTON 

Mavosky ? 

Patricia 
A portrait by him in my new role. Yes. Mrs. 
Frowde knew him. Voila. 



158 AMONG THE LIONS 

SiLVERTON 

I see: that's how you still get things. 

Patricia 
Mrs. Frowde is the greatest " lion-hunter " in cap- 
tivity. She is happy to-day; she's caught three of us: 
a star, a painter, and a promising musician. That's 
why you're here, isn't it? {He nods.) You've finally 
decided to follow the advice I gave you when we first 
came East 

SiLVERTON 

Yes: how different it was then 



Patricia 
(Reminiscently) 
Yes — how different! 

Mrs. Frowde 
(Gentiy restraining The Brown One^ who has 
started towards Patricia and Silverton) 
I've heard they had quite a romance once. 

The Brown One 
How romantic! I wish my husband played a piano. 
{They talk.) 

Patricia 
{Quietly to Silverton) 
Funny, George, while you were playing I was think- 
ing of when I hadn't a job and you were copying for a 



AMONG THE LIONS 159 

living. Your music actually made me want to throw 
off all my insincerities here just for once and see what 
would happen. 



SiLVERTON 



They'd be shocked- 
And I'd be chilly. 



Patricia 



SiLVERTON 

But / couldn't be of any use to you — then. 

Patricia 
No ; my " art " wasn't big enough to succeed by 
itself alone. I had to play the game — get influence — 
{He protests.) Oh, I know myself, George; I was 
cruel to you and all the others. Some day, just to 
square myself in my own eyes, I'll tell people like these 
here about my life and how I have always used them 
to get what I wanted. 

SiLVERTON 

{Surprised) 
What is the matter, Pat? You're not yourself. 

Patricia 
{Smiling) 
I'm having a rush of sincerity to my lips. 

SiLVERTON 

{Looking over toward the others) 

I wonder what they would say if it slipped out? 



i6o AMONG THE LIONS 

Patricia 
Perhaps they'd say it was " temperament." I've 
affected it so much I actually believe I've got it. 

Mrs. Frov^'de 
{Laughing with others) 
Mavosky is so clever ; he said in America passion was 
only sentiment waving a red flag! 

The Green One 
He told me art had no morals and I understood 
him. He's so subtle. 

Silverton 
{To Patricia) 
If I could but make phrases. 

Patricia 
{Rising, wearily) 
I don't have to; I smile them. 

Mrs. Frowde 
{Coming down anxiously) 
Surely, you're not going yet, Patricia? 

The Green One 
{To The Brown One) 
She calls her Patricia! 

Mrs. Frowde 
{Offering Patricia a cup) 
I've fixed it the way you like it — no lemon. 



AMONG THE LIONS i6i 

Patricia 

{Declining) 
You are so thoughtful, dear Emily. 



The Green One 
{To The Brown One) 



Emily! 



The Blue One 
{Coming to Patricia) 
I'm just dying to see your Rosalind. 

Patricia 
{Beautifully covering with an air of sincerity her 
mockery which SiLVERTON alone detects) 
You may before you do. 

The Green One 

{In surprise) 
But the papers say 

Patricia 
You mustn't believe all you see there. My press 
agent has imagination. 

The Blue One 
{Cozily to the others) 
Isn't it splendid to be taken into her confidence. 
(Patricia darts a humorous glance at SiLVER- 

TON.) 



i62 AMONG THE LIONS 

The Brown One 
I should think you'd be tired going out so much. 

Patricia 
Mrs. Frowde's friends are always interesting and 
proper — a rare combination. {Smiling.) Her idea of 
a tragedy would be a social mishap — that way. 

Mrs. Frowde 
{Protectively) 
I warn her against overtaxing herself — and with that 
trying part to play every night. 

Patricia 
Whenever it gets trying to me I think of the 
audience. 

Mrs. Frowde 
{As the others laugh) 
I always said one must have a sense of humor off 
the stage to play the parts you do. 

Patricia 
I get my inspiration from my friends; a cup of tea, 
and brilliant conversation before the horrid time to go 
and " make up." 



AMONG THE LIONS 163 

The Green One 
Doesn't all the make-up hurt the complexion ? 

Patricia 

(Sweetly) 
I always use cold cream first — don't you? 

(An abrupt halt in the laughter comes as MiSS 
Eva Stannard enters and pauses momentarily 
in the doorway. 

Miss Stannard is about twenty-nine^ tall, 
vibrant and almost imperious in bearing. Her 
forehead is high, her eyes keen and her mouth 
thin and tense. She is gowned in gray. 

Patricia is immediately interested in her and 
in the constrained attitude of the others. 

Miss Stannard slowly comes to Mrs. 
Frowde^ bowing graciously, as she passes, to the 
others, who return it with sickly smiles, ex- 
changing secret looks of surprise and indigna- 
tion. Mrs. Frowde in her obvious embarrass- 
ment, instead of offering her hand, proffers the 
tea-cup, which Miss Stannard smilingly de- 
clines. The Blue One, with rare presence 
of mind, coughs, and the others all laugh nerv- 
ously, as though to cover the silence which has 
ensued. 

Patricia slowly sits again, with Silverton 
standing by her chair, intensely interested and 
curious.) 



i64 AMONG THE LIONS 

Miss Stannard 

(Sweetly) 
I had no idea, Mrs. Frowde, you were receiving 
formally to-day. 



Mrs. Frowde 
(Constrained throughout) 
I only sent out a few special cards to meet Miss 
Tenner. But now that you've come, let me present you 
to her. Miss Stannard. 

Patricia 

(More cordial than ever) 
Miss Eva Stannard? (Miss Stannard nods.) Oh; 
I'm indeed glad to meet you. 

Miss Stannard 
(Formally and a bit puzzled) 
Thanks. 

Mrs. Frowde 
You know the others? 



Miss Stannard 
( Cordially ) 

Oh, yes 

(The others laugh a little nervously, nod 
mechanically, with ill-concealed rudeness.) 



AMONG THE LIONS 165 

Mrs. Frowde 
(Nervously) 
Do have another cup of tea. (Pause.) What lovely 
weather we are having! (They all agree.) I almost 
hate to go to Florida this winter; but it saves fuel. 

(Miss Stannard declines again and Silver- 
ton takes the cup from Mrs. Frowde to the 
table, returning to Patricia. There is another 
embarrassing silence in which they all look at 
one another. Finally The Brown One comes 
to say good-bye to Mrs. Frowde^ whose dis- 
comfort increases throughout.) 
Must you really go so soon? 

The Brown One 
(Pointedly) 
Yes; I — I had expected to stay longer, but I've just 
remembered a most important engagement. 

The Blue One 
Can't I drop you on the way ? My car's waiting. 

Mrs. Frowde 
(Distressed) 
Must you, too? But Mr. Silverton has promised 
to play again. 

Silverton 

(Significantly) 

An improvisation — prompted by the occasion. 



i66 AMONG THE LIONS 

The Blue One 
I'm to hear it Thursday — remember. 

{As The Blue One and The Brown One 
say good-bye to Miss Stannard, The Green 
One goes to Mrs. Frowde. Miss Stannard 
being left alone, shows her struggle at self-con- 
trol and sits in a chair unasked. The Brown 
One and The Blue One with heads together 
go out the upper opening.) 

The Green One 
It's getting late. I've had such a pleasant after- 
noon. You won't forget bridge next Monday ? 

(Mrs. Frowde responds limply and as The 
Green One turns. Miss Stannard rises and 
halts her with a look.) 

Miss Stannard 
Good afternoon. 

Mrs. Frowde 
Must you? 

The Green One 
Yes, I'm going to Cartier's for the prizes. {To 
Patricia) Good afternoon. {After a moment's hesita- 
tion.) Good afternoon, Miss Stannard. 

(The Green One goes out as Miss Stan- 
nard eyes Mrs. Frowde in silence while Pa- 
tricia and SiLVERTON speak unheard.) 



AMONG THE LIONS 167 

Patricia 
Leave me here alone, George : this Is real. I've heard 
about her. 

SiLVERTON 

What are you going to do? 

Patricia 
The cats! There's something inside me wants to 
speak. Run along. I'm feeling that rush of sincerity 
I spoke of. 

SiLVERTON 

Mrs. Frowde, I leave only because — (as Miss 
Stannard catches his eye) Miss Stannard, I'm sorry 
they did not wait for that improvisation. But I'm 
afraid they wouldn't have understood the motif. 

(SiLVERTON goes out. Patricia leans forward 
watching the two, as Mrs. Frowde faces Miss 
Stannard. There is an embarrassing pause.) 

Mrs. Frowde 
Really, I don't know what to say. I hardly thought 
you would come — under the circumstances. 

Miss Stannard 
{Fencing carefully throughout) 
I'm dreadfully sorry. I did not know it was a select 
affair. I thought you were always at home to your 
friends. 



i68 AMONG THE LIONS 



Mrs. Frowde 
{Pointedly) 



Friends — yes. 



Miss Stannard 
(Sweetly) 
Then Fm forgiven? 

Mrs. Frowde 
I think you must have seen my friends did not re- 
main after you arrived. 

Miss Stannard 
I'm very sorry; but it is they you should criticize for 
being so frightfully inconsiderate of you. {With a 
sudden firmness) And now Mrs. Frowde, don't you 
think you owe me an explanation? 

Mrs. Frowde 
{Controlling herself with difficulty) 
I feel a strong desire to give it, only I hardly think 
you would like me to speak before 

Miss Stannard 
{Sarcastically) 
Strangers? The resentment was shown before Miss 
Tenner, why not the explanation? 

Patricia 
{Appealing with the usual success to their intimacy.) 
Emily, dear, you forget you have already spoken to 
me of Miss Stannard. (Miss Stannard stiffens.) 



AMONG THE LIONS 169 

Mrs. Frowde 
Wouldn't it be better if I simply asked you not to 
call again? 

Miss Stannard 
(With a note of challenge) 
I must insist that you tell me frankly the reason. 

Mrs. Frowde 
You insist? 

Miss Stannard 
Yes. 

Mrs. Frowde 
{Bluntly) 
There has been too much talk about you. Surely 

you must have realized your name is on every tongue. 

You know the world : women can't do what you have 

done. You must have been mad — and with a married 

man at that! 

(Patricia eyes her keenly. Miss Stannard 
tosses her head defiantly; but as Mrs. Frowde 
eyes her piercingly she seems to lose all her con- 
trol, begins to tremble, totters, clutching the 
back of a chair and finally sinks with an hysteri- 
cal sob upon the sofa, burying her face in her 
hands. Her vanity-case rattles to the floor. 
Patricia rises instinctively to go to her but sits 
again as Mrs. Frowde motions her back and 
approaches MiSS Stannard less harshly.) 



I70 AMONG THE LIONS 

I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you like 
this. Only one must protect one's self — one's friends. 
I couldn't have you come here. (Slowly) Oh, well, 
I'm sure you will see one must draw the line some- 
where. 

Patricia 
(Impressively) 
Yes> Emily, one must draw the line somewhere. 
Why didn't you begin with me? 

(Mrs. Frowde sits in astonishment as Pa- 
tricia leans forward. There is a long pause 
till Miss Stannard looks up slowly in wonder 
and curiosity.) 
I really don't see why you discriminate. 

Mrs. Frowde 
But 

Patricia 
If you and your friends are so shocked by Miss 
Stannard's presence, why should you tolerate me ? No 
one gives us stage people the right to privacy. Every- 
body makes it their business to retail our lives. We're 
public property; so surely you and your friends have 
heard my story, too. Now, really, haven't you? 

Mrs. Frowde 
(Confused) 
Yes, but — my dear . . . 

Patricia 
And what have you heard about me? Let's see if 
it is correct. My name? It isn't my own. My real 



AMONG THE LIONS 171 

one wouldn't look well on the advertising. Besides, 
my father hadn't given me any reason to be proud 
of it. My mother may have been a good soul 
if I had ever really known her. I've always thought 
I was an unwanted child: I hate children so myself. 
But mother couldn't have been the sort who'd drink 
with ease out of your frail tea-cups, and I'll warrant 
no amount of coaching would have kept the yeneer 
from peeling when she spoke. I grew up somehow 
among "beer and skittles," as Trilby would say; 
didn't know what pictures and teas and things were 
till I came East. And do you know how I came? 
He seemed so handsome, too, in those days. 

Mrs. Frowde 
{Moving uneasily as she sees a grim smile come to 
Miss Stannard) 
But, dear, you were young and 

Patricia 
Oh, I knew better ; but I was bored — bored out there 
and I wanted a chance to live. We didn't get along 
very well — he and I ; partly my fault. He couldn't be 
happy with a woman who also had a spark of creation 
tucked away in her soul. Then, besides, I had made 
up my mind I'd do something because I had to keep 
alive. I turned to the stage — most of us poor fools do. 
But I happened to have a way with me and a pair of 
shoulders that were proud of my face. {Sarcastically.) 
The critics called it personality. {Quickly) I wonder 
if you also know I lived in a five-dollar-a-week board- 
ing-house with circus acrobats on the floor above, a sad 



172 AMONG THE LIONS 

soprano in a closet next to mine and a smell of cooking 
all over so I wouldn't be lonely? {Almost uncon- 
sciously her voice at times betrays an unexpected com- 
monness.) How I hated it! How I wanted these 
feathers and gilt! And every time I made up my 
face in that tu^o-by-four part I had, I determined to 
succeed somehow — anyhow. I deserve every bit of 
success I've got, for I worked hard getting the burrs 
out of my speech and some grammar into it. (Mrs. 
Frowde moves uncomfortably again.) That's the 
truth. People suspected I had a brain and I had; but 
I wasn't wasting it on books — I was studying the hearts 
and souls of the sort of people I needed to get along. 
( With increasing relish at the effect of her revelations. ) 
And I saw to succeed in my life I had to grow hard 
inside and soft out. So I affected my husky voice and 
my sad smile; sadness gave me a touch of mystery and 
encouraged curiosity. I knew I'd have to keep my 
face smooth, too; so I stopped feeling for others and 
thought only of myself. Suffering isn't good for 
the complexion. But I helped everybody in con- 
venient ways, because I knew I could make them 
help me in greater. And as I began to get along I 
went out more to teas and the like so I could meet the 
people I could use. 

Mrs. Frowde 
But, my dear . . . 

Patricia 
Oh, I'm not ungrateful for their kindness, but I 
owe them nothing, for I repaid them, by letting them 



AMONG THE LIONS i73 

do things for me. Yes, it flattered them to have me 
about and to say they knew me " intimately." I was 
a good asset to their affairs because I was a success. 
Then I picked up a lot of cant phrases about art and 
the like, so I could prattle; and I even signed articles 
which somebody else wrote lamenting the decline of 
the stage, when I knew in my heart I was glad things 
were as they were because I could make more money 
with a dramatized novel or a tailor-made part than 
in my much advertised and never intended appearance 
in Shakespeare. {Acting as with apparent conviction.) 
And back of this, life was calling me. So I did other 
things to get along. My eyes were open and so it seems 
were those of the world. It envied me my freedom be- 
cause I was a success. All of us don't do it, but I did 
and it wasn't always for love. (Miss Stannard's 
quick breath halts her for a moment; then she adds 
dramatically) Yes, Mrs. Frowde, if you're going to 
draw the line somewhere at your teas, why don't you 
begin with me? 

Mrs. Frowde 
{Floundering) 
But — but you forget, dear, you — you are a great 
creative artist. 

Patricia 

No, I don't. Everybody's tolerance of my whims, 

my moods, my morals would never let me forget it. 

But what has that to do with the right and wrong of 

it? That's what you are wondering, Miss Stannard. 



174 AMONG THE LIONS 

(Miss Stannard gazes at her.) I don't ask any less 
charity for myself because my " temperament " has 
made me live my life my own way; though I don't 
need charity now I'm on top. {Surging along effec- 
tively.) But why shouldn't you and your friends ex- 
tend that same charity to the rest of the sinners? 
(Patricia does not detect Miss Stannard's change of 
manner so intent is she in her own words.) You give 
it to me because I am a creative artist. Everybody has 
a bit of the artist in them. Some of us use it to make 
bread; others use it to make trouble. All the nice 
sinners of the world have the creative spirit, too. Sin 
is the creating of the actual out of the imagined. 
It's falling over the fence in a desire to see what is on 
the other side. (Consciously shaping her words and 
manner to a climax.) But the more so are the sins 
one does for love. Love is the most creative of all 
impulses. If you forgive me because I'm an artist, as 
you say ; if you can ask me to sit beside your lily-faced 
daughters and stubby-chinned sons; if you can kiss my 
lips — I, who have openly violated all your standards 
— ^why do you turn against this woman, who has done 
what she has for the noblest of motives — love — the love 
of a man? 

Miss Stannard 
(She has risen tensely and speaks with a biting bitter- 
ness) 
I suppose you meant very well. Miss Tenner; you 
said it just as though it were a scene in some play — 
with the proper emphasis and pause and nice phrases. 



AMONG THE LIONS I75 

But believe me, Mrs. Frowde is right: we can't judge 
people by the same standards. {Contemptuously) 
There is a difference between you and me. I feel it 
myself. When I need forgiveness I shall only want 
it of my own class. {Scornfully) The tolerance of 
yours means nothing to me. {Very quietly) I am 
sorry, Mrs. Frowde. I'll not call again till he and I 
are married. Then, of course, it will be all right. 
Good-bye. 

(Miss Stannard goes out quickly leaving 
Patricia dumb at her mis-reading of the situa- 
tion. 

Mrs. Frowde^ who has been too confused 
throughout to speaks now vents her anger on 
Miss Stannard.) 

Mrs. Frowde 
The brazen hussy! You see what she is — to insult 
you so after your splendid defense of her! 



She was right. 



Patricia 

{Slowly) 



Mrs. Frowde 
Not at all. She doesn't understand the difference 
with a lady of temperament. 

Patricia 
Temperament — oh, yes. {She smiles sarcastically 
and then looks surprised at Mrs. Frowde.) And you 
are not angry with me? 



176 AMONG THE LIONS 

Mrs. Frowde 

(Affectionately) 
At you, my dear friend? Indeed not. I know you 
didn't mean me. And besides I would have understood 
you if you had. 

Patricia 
{Eyeing her with undetected cynicism) 
Yes, yes. You would have understood. 

Mrs. Frowde 
{Impulsively) 
Won't you stay and have a bite to eat with me — 
all alone? I can drive you to the theater. 

Patricia 
I have an interview. 

Mrs. Frowde 
{As they walk to the door) 
Too bad they misquote so. 

Patricia 
Yes, isn't it? I've had such a dear afternoon. 

Mrs. Frowde 
{Embracing her affectionately) 
And you'll come to lunch Tuesday? 

Patricia 
{As though wishing to escape) 
No . . I . . . 



AMONG THE LIONS 177 

Mrs. Frowde 

(Solicitously) 
But Mavosky will be here and he's taken quite 
fancy to you. Thinks you'd make a splendid study. 

Patricia 

(Recalling) 
Mavosky! Oh, yes. I thought you said Wednes- 
day ; that's matinee day. Tuesday is all right. 

Mrs. Frowde 
Say at two? 

Patricia 
I may be a moment late. 

Mrs. Frowde 
We'll wait for you. (As they are walking out) I 
hope you'll forget what she said. 

Patricia 
Oh, Miss Stannard hasn't any temperament. And 
it does make a difference, doesn't it? 

( They go out leaving the room empty, with the 
candles on the table winking in their sockets.) 



[Curtain] 



THE REASON 



THE PEOPLE 

LocKSLEY Randolph, a retired merchant. 

Paula, his daughter. 

Tom Sabine, his secretary. 

Mary Sabine, his secretary's wife. 



SCENE 

Sitting-room at the Randolph home in a suburb of 
the city; an early winter night. 




THE REASON* 

HANDSOMELY furnished sitting-room, 
the general entrance of which from the floor 
below is at the right. Beyond this a broad 
window is seen as the moonlight faintly filters through 
the trees outside. Directly opposite, some smoldering 
logs betray a fireplace, near which is another door open- 
ing into Paula's apartments. Large double doors in 
the center open into a hallway leading to library. A 
telephone is on a large writing-table, upon which a 
light, with a luxurious shade suspended above, casts a 
strong yellow glow. The furnishings show signs of 
tasteless wealth and are devoid of any feminine touch. 

Sabine and Randolph are bending over some docu- 
ments. 

Sabine is about thirty-three, clean-shaven with 
shrewd eyes and a conspicuously insinuating smile. The 
manner with which he feels for his luords and his 
studied coolness suggest a deep and significant interest 
in the developments. 

Randolph is fifty, well-preserved and possessing the 
assurance of permanent prosperity: he is apparently 
without illusions as the lines about his slightly pro- 
truding eyes and thick lips indicate a dissipated life. 

Though the two men are obviously considerate, there 

* Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. 



i82 THE REASON 

is concealed an instinctive mistrust. They are silent a 
long while until Randolph looks up from the papers. 

Sabine 
Anything else? 

Randolph 
How long will those compilations take ? 

Sabine 
Same as the others. 

Randolph 
A month each, eh? You've done . . . let's 
see . . . 

Sabine 
I've been your secretary for three months. 

Randolph 
And you've been at these every evening — ever since 
I took you in. 

Sabine 
I wouldn't put it that way. 

Randolph 
You are sure you can still find all you need in my 
own library here? 

Sabine 
All I need — behind the closed doors. 



THE REASON 183 

Randolph 
(Casually) 
I shall see that my orders not to disturb you are 
continued. 

Sabine 
I've noticed you never even come yourself. 

Randolph 
I like to think of young genius being left alone. 

Sabine 
{Mock seriously) 
And out of harm's way ? 

Randolph 
Exactly — at night. (Half to himself.) Another 
month will about finish it. 

Sabine 
(Significantly) 
Mr. Randolph, you are paying rather high fo r 

Randolph 
(Eyeing him quickly) 
For what? 

Sabine 
(Turning the pages casually) 
Unremunerative work. 



i84 THE REASON 

Randolph 
One never pays too high for what one wants. 

Sabine 
Not at the time. 

{They look at each other: Sabine slowly 
gathers the papers together and glances towards 
Randolph who is coolly staring before him. 
There is a quiet pause. Then Sabine opens 
the library door and casually steps back.) 

Your daughter. (Calmly to Paula) Your father is 

here, Miss Randolph. 

(Paula enters with a book in hand. She is 
twenty-three and charming, with a sweet inno- 
cent air which suggests a hedged-in life. She 
is dressed in a simple tea-gown and her manner 
throughout is calm and unsophisticated.) 

Paula 
Good evening, Mr. Sabine. 

Randolph 
Where have you been, Paula? 

Paula 

Getting a book. 

Randolph 
You mustn't read so much. 

Sabine 
Anything further, Mr. Randolph, before you go out? 



THE REASON 185 

Randolph 
No. But — but I don't remember mentioning that 
I was going out. 

Sabine 
I thought you did. Good evening. 

Paula 
( Good-naturedly) 
Is Mrs. Sabine well? 

Sabine 
Not exactly. 

Randolph 
Indeed ? 

Sabine 
{Smiling) 
My wife seems upset about something. 

Randolph 
{Casually) 
Why, she seemed well when she was here last, didn't 
she, Paula? 

Paula 

Yes, and so happy. 

Randolph 
What's the trouble? 



i86 THE REASON 

Sabine 
Fm not quite sure — yet. 

Randolph 
Perhaps she needs a change. 

Sabine 
I'll tell her you asked after her, Mr. Randolph. 

Randolph 
Certainly. Do. But it was Miss Randolph who 
inquired. 

Sabine 
I thought it was you. {He smiles.) The air in the 
library has affected me. {He smiles.) Good evening. 
{He leaves the room, slowly closing the door. 
There is a pause as Paula looks curiously be- 
fore her, while Randolph, somewhat puzzled, 
goes up to door and sees that Sabine has gone 
into the library beyond.) 

Paula 

I hope it's nothing serious. 



WKat? 



Mrs. Sabine. 



Randolph 



Paula 



THE REASON 187 

Randolph 
Nothing, of course. 

Paula 
Hasn't she told you? 

Randolph 
Me? 

Paula 
You're such good friends. 

Randolph 
My dear, women with attractive husbands never 
confide in outsiders. 

Paula 
{Innocently) 
Don't they? 

Randolph 

{Laughing) 
You know so little of life. (Paula sighs in agree- 
ment.) And I wish you to keep your sweetness until 
you are married. 

Paula 
Doesn't one need it then? 

Randolph 
You'll understand when the time comes, child. 



i88 THE REASON 

Paula 
( Enigmatically ) 
And one mustn't before ! 

Randolph 
Children don't realize how they unconsciously hold 
parents to higher things: it's because of you, for in- 
stance, more than anything else since your dear mother 
died, that I've tried to keep my life an example. 

Paula 
I've always had it before me, father. {Coming 
closer.) I'm deeply grateful for showing me what I, 
too, should be. 

Randolph 
Yes, yes. {Patting her.) Now, dear, run along to 
bedi your eyes are tired. 

Paula 
{Glancing at book) 
I'm fond of reading. 

Randolph 
{Humoring her throughout) 
What do you like best? 

Paula 
{Cheerfully) 
Adventure. 



THE REASON 189 

Randolph 
With real heroes? 

Paula 
{Referring to book) 
I love those who keep cool in times of danger. 

Randolph 
You're only a child, after all, eh? {He pats her 
tenderly as she notices him glancing at his watch.) 

Paula 
( Casually ) 
You are going out? 

Randolph 
Yes: some business. 

Paula 
Will you be late? 

Randolph 
Do I disturb you? 

Paula 
I can generally hear the machine from my room, be- 
fore you turn up the path. 

Randolph 
It's easy nowadays to go fast in the dark. 



I90 THE REASON 

Paula 
You will always toot the horn? (Reprovingly) 
Think of the danger to others. 

Randolph 
Foolish girl! There's no danger about here. 

Paula 
No; of course not. (Goes to him.) Good night. 

Randolph 
Dear, dear girl. (Looking at her.) It's good to 
have such a daughter. 

Paula 
And such a father. ( They kiss; the telephone 
rings.) Oh, let me. (She goes to phone.) Good 
evening, Mrs. Sabine. (Randolph starts a bit, un- 
noticed.) I thought you were ill. Mr. Sabine was 
telling father. I believe he's in the library. Father 
will take the message: he's here. Do take care of 
yourself: just think what Mr. Sabine would do if you 
were ill. Good night. 

(She hands receiver to father, who half pauses, 
thinking she will leave the room; but she lingers 
over her book.) 

Randolph 
Good evening. (Half pointedly) Yes, my 
daughter is here. Anything I can do? Do you want 
my advice? Oh, whatever is wisest. Of course I'll 



THE REASON 191 

tell Mr. Sabine. I hope it's nothing serious. {He 
hangs up receiverj concealing from Paula his dis- 
pleasure.) 

Paula 
She seemed excited. 

Randolph 
Woman's nerves. 

Paula 
Funny I never have them. 

Randolph 
You're not married. 

Paula 
You're going to see her? 

Randolph 
She's on her way here. 

Paula 
Here? Then you will tell Mr. Sabine she's coming? 

Randolph 
Yes. But you're tired, dear. 

Paula 
I'll feel better with my things off. Good night. 
{She pauses at her door.) Father; she and Mr. Sabine 
are happily married, aren't they? 



192 THE REASON 

Randolph 
Of course, of course. 

Paula 
I'm glad to hear so. 

Randolph 
Why? 

Paula 

{Glancing at him) 
Then it couldn't be about that. 

{She closes the door softly. Randolph looks 
after her puzzled, then walks up and down 
alone very much irritated. He takes out his 
check book, glancing through the stubs cyni- 
cally. Then he throws it back into the table 
drawer. Finally he picks up the phone, ob- 
viously switching it.) 

Randolph 
Is that you, Sabine? You've found what you want? 
Vou won't need me any more ? Well, stick close to it. 
I just wished to see. Good night. {He switches it 
off again and impatiently waits.) Is that you. Brooks? 
Tell Toder to have the car ready. I may need it later. 
No, the closed car — it's chilly. Oh, by the way, {try- 
ing to be casual), in case / should be out, Mr. Sabine is 
expecting Mrs. Sabine. Let her come right up to the 
library. What's that? Better see who it is. {Show- 
ing displeasure.) I'll tell Mr. Sabine myself. Yes; if 



THE REASON 193 

you're sure it's Mrs. Sabine, better let her come up 

here. That'll be all for to-night. 

{He hangs up the receiver, walks up and down 
again and finally opens the hall door. There is 
quite a pause as he stands, smoking a cigarette, 
awaiting her. Finally, Mrs. Sabine enters, 
leaving the door open. 

She is in her late twenties, of rather restless 
beauty, which under her shifting expression be- 
comes hard and cynical. She apparently has 
little resistance and suggests a love of excitement 
and sensation. Her manner is flighty though 
worldly. She is handsomely dressed, with 
beautiful furs upon her sensuous shoulders.) 

Randolph 
{Abruptly) 
What the devil does this mean ? 



We're alone? 



Naturally. 



Mrs. Sabine 



Randolph 



Mrs. Sabine 
{Half flippantly) 
I had to see you. 

Randolph 

Why here? 



194 THE REASON 

Mrs. Sabine 
I couldn't wait till you came to me. 

Randolph 
{With strained jocularity) 
Feather brain; what's the trouble? 

Mrs. Sabine 
Nothing — only my husband knows. 

Randolph 
( Quickly ) 
About us? 

Mrs. Sabine 
He's known for some time. 

Randolph 
And he only spoke ? 

Mrs. Sabine 
To-day. 

Randolph 
The devil! {Slowly) What's the reason? 

Mrs. Sabine 
Why he kept silent? {Shrugging shoulders) You 
men always have reasons. 

Randolph 
What did he say? 



THE REASON 195 

Mrs. Sabine 

{^Laughing cynically) 

He smiled. It was so funny and so unexpected. 

Randolph 
{Incredulously) 
He didn't make a scene? 

Mrs. Sabine 
No. And I'd been rehearsing for weeks what I 
should say. 

Randolph 
But didn't he ? 

Mrs. Sabine 
{Bitterly) 
I tell you he didn't even insult me ! 

Randolph 
Sh! 

{He looks towards his daughter s room and 
then crosses and closes the door through which 
Mrs. Sabine has entered.) 

Mrs. Sabine 
{After she has watched him) 
Hasn't he spoken to you? 

Randolph 
Not yet. 



196 THE REASON 

Mrs. Sabine 
That's like him. He said he'd wait till I broke the 
news to you. 



Randolph 



And then ? 



Mrs. Sabine 
Then he said you would want to see him and 
(ominously) he'd do some talking. 

Randolph 
(Recalling) 
So that's why he smiled just now. — Didn't he say 
anything? 

Mrs. Sabine 
He merely put his hands on your furs. I thought 
he'd believe I'd saved enough to buy them myself. 
He stroked them once or twice slowly — and smiled. 
But he said nothing. Then he led me to the window 
and pointed to your car — the extra one you forced 
upon us — ^when you began. He smiled ; but he said 
nothing. He picked up a book: the work in the 
library was interesting; it kept him safe in the long 
winter evenings. I tell you he said it all in his smiles 
and never a word. (Violently) He disappointed me 
so! I'd be sorry for him a little if he'd only struck 
me. God! I hate men who only smile when they are 
angry. (Randolph trying to quiet her.) Oh, I hate 
him with his penny a 5^ear. I hate him for asking me 



THE REASON 197 

to marry him, and then not even striking me when he 
found out what I was! 

Randolph 
But didn't you even try to deny it? 

Mrs. Sabine 
{Defiantly) 
Why should I deny it? 

Randolph 
{Cynically) 
Of course not. Sooner or later, a woman always 
confesses to someone. 

Mrs. Sabine 
{Quickly) 
What did you want me to do? Think of you? I 
was sick of him. When I saw he wasn't going to 
make a fuss, I didn't think your well-known reputa- 
tion would suffer; so I didn't care about protecting 
m3^self. What's the difference, anyhow? He can't 
give me what I want: you can. If we can only keep 
it quiet, nobody need know — and it wouldn't even 
reach your daughter's ears. 

Randolph 
{Angrily) 
We'll not discuss her. 

Mrs. Sabine 
No. She's a good woman — with her lily hands and 
her thin eyebrows. What does she know of life: the 



198 THE REASON 

sordid soapy hours ending with the snore of a husband 
you hate. Ugh! {He walks up and down, irritated.) 
Well, then, what are we going to do to keep it from 
her? 

Randolph 
That will depend on your husband and whether he'll 
be sensible. {He goes to phone, switching it.) 

Mrs. Sabine 
{Looking before her) 
You did it beautifully, Randolph; with such knowl- 
edge of me and my kind. But don't take too much 
credit. I'd have done it with any man who offered me 
what you did — if he'd come at the right time, as you 
did, and found me at the end of a trolley line like this. 

Randolph 

{At phone) 
Step here a moment, Sabine. Yes : your wife is here. 
{Cynically) She said you'd be expecting her. {He 
hangs up the receiver.) You could almost hear him 
smile. 

Mrs. Sabine 
{Without self-delusion) 
He couldn't hold me: he was too poor. 

Randolph 
No: you're the sort that needs a diamond-studded 
clasp to keep her morals fastened on. 



THE REASON 199 

Mrs. Sabine 
And they're your specialty. 

Randolph 
I think Sabine and I can make some arrangement. 

Mrs. Sabine 
Let's be comfortable, that's all I say. I'm so tired of 
making my lies fit. I'm willing to keep on with it. 
Why not? It's all so easy with a woman once she's 
slipped. Lots of us would be what I am if they could 
find a man to go through the marriage ceremony with 
them first. 

{A knock is heard at the door — it seems almost 
sarcastic, as it waits for a reply.) 

Randolph 
Come in. 

{The door opens softly and Sabine enters 
slowly and comes down to them with the same 
smile. There is a pause. Mrs. Sabine re- 
mains tense and seated.) 
Have a cigarette? 

Sabine 
{They eye each other as they light up ) 
Thanks. 

Randolph 
{Coming to the point) 
You know. 



200 THE REASON 

Sabine 
{Puffing throughout) 
Yes. 

Randolph 
Well? 

Sabine 
I repeat the word — well ? 

Randolph 
You will come to an understanding? 

Sabine 
Which means? 

Randolph 
You are — shall I say agreeable? 

Sabine 
You love my wife? 

Randolph 
{Courteously) 
Naturally. 

Sabine 
And you, Mary? 

Mrs. Sabine 
Would a woman do what I've done without love? 



THE REASON aoi 

Sabine 
Never. 

Randolph 
Well, say something. 

Sabine 
(Calmly) 
It seems very simple. 

Randolph 
Which means? 

Sabine 
That I'd still like to complete the compilations in 
your library. 

Mrs. Sabine 
{Rising, astonished) 
You're even willing to stay here? 

Randolph 
{Quickly) 
And live ostensibly at home — ^with your wife? 

Sabine 
{Calmly) 
Why not ? I have no place else to go and she merely 
wishes to be comfortable. 

Randolph 
{Relieved) 
You will not make a fuss? 



202 THE REASON 

Sabine 
I'm sorry to disappoint my wife. 

Randolph 
You will not let my daughter discover? 

Sabine 
No. I consider your position embarrassing enough. 

Randolph 
{Eyeing him) 
So your wife is worth nothing to you? 

Sabine 
{Quickly) 
You're mistaken there. 

Mrs. Sabine 
Thanks. But how? 

Sabine 
Protection. 

Mrs. Sabine 
Against what? 

Sabine 
Against Mr. Randolph. 

Randolph 
Me? 



THE REASON 203 

Sabine 
Exactly. 

Randolph 
What the devil are you driving at? 

Sabine 
Perhaps if I take it kindly now, you will not blame 
me — in the future. 

Mrs. Sabine 
Oh, I know we'll get tired of each other if that's 
what you're suggesting. 

Sabine 
{Detecting an agreeing look in Randolph's face) 
That may be what I mean. {Eyeing Randolph 

keenly as he sees her bite her lips.) If that's all, I'll 

return to the library. 

Randolph 
Have you no suggestions? 

Sabine 

{Coldly) 

Be careful not to make a fool of me — in public 

Mrs. Sabine 
There speaks the man. 

Randolph 
Then you'll be silent? 



204 THE REASON 

Sabine 
Until 

Randolph 
Until? 

Sabine 
Until you get your deserts. 

Randolph 
A threat? 

Sabine 
(Smiling) 
No. Only I know my wife. 

Mrs. Sabine 
And that's the sort of man I married. (To Sabine) 
Do you blame me for throwing you over? 

Sabine 
Havel? 

Mrs. Sabine 
(Indignantly) 
How dared you open me to this? 

Randolph 
Don't blame him, Mary. 

Mrs. Sabine 
(Indignantly) 
You knew, and you let him steal your wife. 



THE REASON 205 

Sabine 
Some men like their women that way. 

Mrs. Sabine 
Isn't it funny! It's losing its romance — being 
handed over like some food at supper. Isn't it funny 
— and disappointing. 

Randolph 
I can't say I admire you, Sabine. 

Sabine 
No, you can't. But you will when you know my 
wife better. 

Mrs. Sabine 
{Losing control) 
I'm more ashamed of you than I am of myself. Why 
didn't you stop me if you knew? What's the reason? 
Why didn't you strike me? Why didn't you, so I 
could feel you and I were quits? Why didn't you — 
like that and that. {She strikes him furiously with her 
gloves once or twice, but he continues smiling.) 

Randolph 
Mary, don't let's have a scene. Sh! 

Mrs. Sabine 
I wanted a scene! And to think I wasn't even worth 
insulting ! 

{She goes out quickly, leaving the hall door 
open. She has dropped her glove and as Ran- 



2o6 THE REASON 

DOLPH^ with a resigned, half-bored air, starts 
to follow her, Sabine stoops, picks up the 
glove and, smiling, halts Randolph.) 

Sabine 
My wife dropped her glove. Will you take it to 
her? I have my work, and, as you remarked, another 
month will about finish it. 

Randolph 
{Smiling in spite of himself) 
Life would be so much simpler if all husbands were 
so considerate. 

Sabine 
The spice would be gone. 

Randolph 
I suppose she is waiting 

Sabine 
— for the glove. {Offering it to him.) 

Randolph 
{Taking it) 
Yes: for her glove. 

Sabine 
I'm glad you will drive in the closed car. 

Randolph 
{At the door) 
Our reputations must be protected. 



THE REASON 207 

Sabine 
No man likes to be made a fool of. 

Randolph 
{Slowly ) 
After all, she's only a woman and they're all alike, 
eh? 

Sabine 
(Slozvly) 
All alike. Yes. 

Randolph 
( Casually ) 
You'll find the cigarettes on the table. 

Sabine 
Thanks. 

(Randolph goes out, closing the door. 
Sabine stands a moment, then turns to the win- 
dow and looks off till he sees the car has driven 
away. He turns down the light and then cross- 
ing eagerly, he knocks on Paula's door. He 
repeats this.) 
Paula! Paula!! 

{He stands wmting.) 



[Curtain] 



THE HOUSE 



THE PEOPLE 

Charles Ray, a professor of philosophy. 
Elizabeth, his wife. 



SCENE 
A room in an apartment hotel suite. One evening. 




THE HOUSE* 

PROFESSOR AND MRS. RAY are at the little 
table finishing their coffee. In the center there 
is a white-robed birthday cake with three golden 
candles sending a gentle light on them. A myriad of 
faint wrinkles on the Professor's kindly face might 
betray his age, though his thin body, in spite of its 
slight stoop, belies his seventy years. As he sits there 
precisely dressed in his evening clothes, he is the person- 
ification of fine breeding, the incarnation of all that 
blood and culture can produce. And through it all, 
there glows an alluring whimsy which one has no right 
to expect in a professor of philosophy. 

Mrs. Ray, gowned also for the ceremony they are 
celebrating, is ten years younger; soft and gentle, too, 
yet sadder somehow, as though, in spite of her effort to 
live in his enthusiasms, it has become a bit difficult to 
sustain his mood of happiness. 

But as they sip their coffee alone in the hotel suite 
with its conventional furnishings of a stereotyped com- 
fort, graced only by a large bunch of white roses, owe 
senses the deep and abiding affection which has warmed 
their long life together. 

* Copyright by George Middleton. See back of title page. 



212 THE HOUSE 

Professor 
(With a sigh of contentment) 
Ah! 

{He sees she is thoughtful : he reaches over and 
takes from behind the table the quart bottle of 
champagne. He pours a little in her glass.) 

Mrs. Ray 
Oh, dear; I'm afraid I've had enough. 

Professor 
Nonsense. 

Mrs. Ray 
But I'm beginning to feel it. 

Professor 
That's the intention. {Filling his glass.) There. 
Now a toast. {Standing with the greatest gallantry.) 
Here's to my comrade of forty years: may we have as 
many more together. 

Mrs. Ray 
Oh, Charles, I'm afraid that's asking too much of 
Providence. 

Professor 
We should ask much and be satisfied with less. 

Mrs. Ray 

{Raising her glass) 
To my friend and husband. 



THE HOUSE 213 

Professor 
You make a distinction ? 

Mrs. Ray 
The world does. 

Professor 
What is the world doing here on our wedding anni- 
versary? (Seriously) Let's drink to each other — and 
the children. 

Mrs. Ray 
{Wistfully looking at the candles) 
And the children. 

{They sip: he shows he enjoys it; she sits 
thoughtfully while he takes out his cigarette 
case. He starts to take one, and then, with 
a twinkle in his eyes, offers her the case.) 

Professor 
Cigarette, dear? 

Mrs. Ray 

{Smiling) 
No : thank you. I shan't begin at my time of life. 

Professor 
Cato learned Greek at eighty. The minute people 
cease to learn — even a vice — they have begun to grow 
old. So beware. 



214 THE HOUSE 

Mrs. Ray 
{Striking a match) 
Let me light it for you. 

Professor 
{Slyly) 
Which illustrates a woman's part in life: encourag- 
ing vice in men, eh? {He lights it and puffs in en- 
joyment.) I must say I like my idea about the cake 
and the candles. 

Mrs. Ray 
It's lovely, dear. Who but you would have thought 
of having a birthday cake on our wedding anniversary. 

Professor 
I started to put forty candles : one for each year ; but 
there was no room left for the cake. 

Mrs. Ray 
I like the idea of three — ^just three. 

Professor 
Yes ; three birthdays that meant so much in our time 
together: Teddy, Mary and Paul. 

Mrs. Ray 

Forty years! 

Professor 
It's a long while to be married, dear. Speaks well 
for our patience, eh? 



THE HOUSE 215 

Mrs. Ray 
And not a word to-night from our three children. 

Professor 
{Waving it aside) 
After all, our marriage didn't concern them — at the 
time. 

Mrs. Ray 
And we never forget their anniversaries. 

Professor 
But think how important those have always been 
from the beginning: each one the start of a great ad- 
venture for us. 

Mrs. Ray 
And more responsibility. 

Professor 
Certainly. Isn't that the way we have broadened 
our lives? Think, dear, of how many times we have 
been young — once with our own youth and three times 
with our candles. 

Mrs. Ray 
{She rises and goes to the roses which she inhales) 
And our hair is white. 

Professor 
{Gallantly rising also) 
That can't be blamed on the children. White hair 
doesn't indicate marriage — always. It's a matter of 
pigment, I'm told, and afFects bachelors equally. 



2i6 THE HOUSE 

Mrs. Ray 
You're right, of course, dear. We have kept young 
through having our children; only 

Professor 
{Coming to her) 
Only what ? Surely there isn't a regret as you look 
back? 

Mrs. Ray 
Oh, no, not regret ; only so many of our dreams have 
never been realized. 

Professor 
{As he breaks off a rose and gives it to her) 
But we have dreamed; that's the important thing, 
isn't it? 

Mrs. Ray 
{Looking at rose) 
I suppose so. 

Professor 
Of course it is, dear. And we have dreamed more 
than most because we have been young four times. 

Mrs. Ray 

{As she crosses to the sofa) 

But it's always been through others — for others. 

Professor 
But now it is for ourselves. 



THE HOUSE 217 

Mrs. Ray 
{Smiling) 
You mean our house? 

Professor 
Yes. Now that they've retired me with a pension 
and our children no longer need our help, we can 
build our house. 

Mrs. Ray 

{Wearily, as she sits) 
We have built so many houses. 

Professor 

Yes. Life's an experiment. Remember the first 

little cottage where Teddy was born? It didn't leave 

us much margin even though it was small. Come to 

think of it, dear, we've built three houses, haven't we? 

Mrs. Ray 
It's the fourth we've really thought of most — and 
that hasn't been built yet. 

Professor 
That's to be ours — all ours; with room for the 
children if they want to come back. 

Mrs. Ray 
Oh, that's it: they won't come back now. Our house 
won't suit them. 



2i8 THE HOUSE 

Professor 
{Taking a chair over near her) 
How can we expect them to come into a house that 
isn't even built? You know our modern children are 
very peculiar. They get that from you. 

Mrs. Ray 
Nonsense. It's you who are peculiar. Just look at 
the kind of house you want. 

Professor 
(Doubtfully) 
It is different from yours, I'll admit. 

Mrs. Ray 
I don't object to the architecture. It's the surround- 
ings you insist on. 

Professor 
You want the city and I want the forest. 

Mrs. Ray 

{Shaking her head) 
We'll never agree. 

Professor 
{As though with an inspiration) 
I have a solution. I'll live in your city house, if 
you'll have my forest around it. 

Mrs. Ray 
I'm afraid, dear, that is a bit impractical at present 
prices. 



THE HOUSE 219 

Professor 
{With a whimsical smile) 
But we certainly can't have the city you love around 
my house in the woods! I'm afraid of the streets. 

Mrs. Ray 
Any friendly policeman would help you across them. 

Professor 
Think of me walking arm in arm with a policeman ! 
I must consider my reputation, even though I am 
seventy. No. {With a twinkle.) I can't seem to 
visualize the house, can you, dear? 

Mrs. Ray 
It isn't like your dream or mine. 

Professor 
No. I'd have a hard time finding my birch trees in 
the moonlight. Have you ever noticed how lovely 
they are when the leaves have all gone ? 

Mrs. Ray 
Somehow they are no more lovely than the sense 
of life in the tall ugly buildings man has built with 
his own hands. 

Professor 
But trees are eternal. 

Mrs. Ray 
That's where we differ. I live in to-day : you live in 
all time. 



220 THE HOUSE 

Professor 
That's my profession. You lose count of time when 
you are a philosopher. 

Mrs. Ray 
And I am a woman of the world. 

Professor 
(As he goes to light another cigarette from the candles) 
I'd hardly describe you that way, my dear; that 
sounds so naughty. 

Mrs. Ray 
I mean I love every minute that passes and every- 
thing the moment brings. I love the people who are 
of that moment. 

Professor 
You still dream of having a salon of celebrities? 

Mrs. Ray 

{Smiling) 
It's no worse than the museum of antiquities on your 
book shelves. But I keep forgetting you want your 
house in the forest so you can write about the dead. 

Professor 
And you want your house in the city for the living. 

Mrs. Ray 
I wish we could compromise somehow. 



THE HOUSE 221 

Professor 
If we only had more money I could do away with 
the wilderness and content myself with a few wooded 
acres, I suppose. Only it must be roomy where the 
winds can speak. And I must have some wild things 
about. Though perhaps I could compromise on a pet 
squirrel, if necessary. {He smiles.) And if I met 
you that far do you think you would be willing to live 
an hour or so from the city? 

Mrs. Ray 
Why, of course. But haven't we been looking for 
that sort of place for years; even when we weren't free 
to live where we wished? 

Professor 
I can't see why money is always getting in the way 
of our dreams. I often wonder what scoundrel it was 
who first invented money. 

Mrs. Ray 
And yet we might now be able to have what we 
wished if 

Professor 
If? The eternal if? 

Mrs. Ray 

{She has gone to the table, placing rose there) 

I was thinking of all we gave up for our children. 



222 THE HOUSE 

Professor 
Wasn't it jolly? 

Mrs. Ray 
While we still dreamed of the house we two would 
build for ourselves. 

Professor 
With rooms for them, don't forget that. 

Mrs. Ray 
And now where are our children? 

Professor 
Living — maybe dreaming a bit of our dreams and 
not knowing it is ours. That's the lovely thing about 
dreams: I like to think they are never lost. 

Mrs. Ray 
Yet here we sit alone on our anniversary and they 
have forgotten. 

Professor 
The young have so many things to remember. 

Mrs. Ray 
And we can never build our house now. 

Professor 
Nonsense. We can go on building it just as though 
it were really possible. Come, little mother, let's be 



THE HOUSE 223 

young together to the end. I'll have to throw another 
log on this make-believe open fire in my house. {He 
pulls the sofa around so it faces the radiator which he 
eyes dubiously.) Hm! That won't stimulate the 
imagination. Wait! I know. 

{He goes over to the table and smiling quaintly 
he lifts up the cake with its three burning 
candles and carefully places it on the low radia- 
tor. Then he presses a switch on wall nearby 
and the lights overhead go out, leaving only the 
candles, a desk lamp and the moonlight through 
the window to give the shadows life. He laughs 
and warms his hands before the candles as he 
would before a fire.) 
Come, dear, before my fire! By the way, is there a 
log fire in your dream-house, dear? 

Mrs. Ray 
{Smiling and fitting in with his fancy) 
If you are to be with me, of course. 

Professor 
Well then we have a blazing fire in both our houses, 
eh? {He sits beside her on sofa and they gaze at 
candles. ) And how economical fuel is when you dream 
about it. I've got a whole forest waiting to be cut by 
me, to-morrow, after I've worked all morning on my 
new book. 

Mrs. Ray 
And I've been to the musicale at the BiltmQre. 



224 THE HOUSE 

Professor 
What did you do this afternoon, dear? 

Mrs. Ray 
{Tapping his arm) 
Oh, I had a brilliant reception. 

Professor 
Receptions are always brilliant. 

Mrs. Ray 
But this one really was. I had Andre Gidet and 
Arsene Tailleur there. They are those clever new 
writers all Paris is talking about. 

Professor 
You didn't enjoy their witticisms more than I did a 
pesky little bluejay that made fun of me as I fished in 
my emerald lake. 

Mrs. Ray 
But surely even you would have envied me my dinner 
when the celebrated Mary Mevin explained her new 
symphony. 

Professor 
Nonsense, dear. Think of grilled trout caught by 
my own hand! And then the long lazy silent hours 
afterwards with Aristotle. Nice chap, Aristotle: knew 
a heap about men and things, though he lived in an 
age when there wasn't so much to remember as there 



THE HOUSE 225 

is now. Then afterwards I confess I yawned with 
the comfort of it all; good, deep-reaching yawns, as 
Nature intended. I went out to see my friends the 
stars. Best friends a man ever had: a bit cold and 
distant, perhaps; but always there behind the clouds. 
(She has risen and gone to the candles. There is a 
pause. Then she snuffs them out.) And I suppose 
at the same time you were trjang in vain to find them 
out j^our city window? {Sees she is sobbing very 
quietly: the candles are out.) Why, dear! What's 
the trouble? 

Mrs. Ray 
Oh, I can't pretend any more. Our log fire isn't 
real. Here we are all alone in a hotel apartment 
— before an old steam radiator and electric light. 
(Presses the switch again.) 

Professor 
{Tenderly and seriously) 
I know. You left all that which might have been 
yours .. if ... if you hadn't married me. 

Mrs. Ray 

And you — without me and the children — you might 
have had your dream now. 

Professor 
{Very seriously) 
No, dear. One never can realize them: that's why 
they are called dreams. 



226 THE HOUSE 

Mrs. Ray 
(Goes to him looking up into his face) 
You know, I wouldn't have given up one hour of my 
life with you. 

Professor 
{Stroking her hair tenderly) 
We have been very happy. 

Mrs. Ray 
Yet why is there something we both feel we have 
missed ? 

Professor 
Because even the happy must be incomplete or else 
they would cease to be happy. Isn't happiness hope as 
much as realization ? We have realized — not ourselves 
completely — yet through each other. We have been 
what the other sought. But only the very wise know 
that there is an inner life no one can be part of: a 
lonely place where even the dearest can not enter, be- 
cause it is a lonely place. 

Mrs. Ray 
Yes. I think that is the way it is with me, dear. 

Professor 
And the way it is with our house we shall never 
build. We can't enter it together. 

Mrs. Ray 
{Looking before her) 
Yet I can still see my house. 



THE HOUSE 227 

Professor 
As clearly as I do mine. {Looking whimsically over 
at the smoking candles.) Even though our own log 
fire is burned out. 

Mrs. Ray 
{Smiling) 
It's changed somewhat these forty years. 

Professor 
Yes. That's the way dream-houses have. {Taking 
her hand.) And, dear one, when we each think of 
our houses we can never build, let's — let's always go on 
holding each other's hand, eh? 

Mrs. Ray 
Dearest . . . 

Professor 
So many people lose each other when they dream. 
{He kisses her tenderly.) 



[Curtain] 



ON THE HIRING LINE 

Comedy in 3 acts, by Harvey O'Higgins and Harriet 
Pord. 5 males, 4 females. Interior throughout. Costumes, 
modern* Plays 2% hours. 

Sherman Fessenden, unable to induce servants to remain for 
any reasonable length of time at his home, hits upon the novel 
expedient of engaging detectives to serve as domestics. 

His second wife, an actress, weary of the country and longing 
lor Broadway, has succeeded in discouraging every other cook and 
kutler against remaining long at the house, believing that by so 
doing she will win her husband to her theory that country life 
is dead. So she is deeply disappointed when she finds she cannot 
discourage the new servants. 

The sleuths, believing they had been called to report on the 
Actions of those living with the Fessendens, proceeded to warn 
Mr. Fessenden that his wife has been receiving love-notes from, 
Steve Mark, an actor friend, and that his daughter has been 
planning to elope with a thief. 

One sleuth causes an uproar in the house, making a mess of 
the situations he has witnessed. Mr. Fessenden, however, haa 
learned a lesson and is quite willing to leave the servant problem 
to Lis wife thereafter. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) 

Price, 75 Cents. 



A FULL HOUSE 

A farcical comedy in 3 acts. By Fred Jackson. 7 male^ 
7 females. One interior scene. Modern costumes. Time, 
2y2 hours. 

Imagine a reckless and wealthy youth who writes ardent 
love letters to a designing chorus girl, an attorney brother- 
in-law who steals the letters and then gets his hand-bag mixed 
up with the grip of a burglar who has just stolen a valuable 
necklace from the mother of the indiscreet youth, and the 
efforts of the crook to recover his plunder, as incidents in 
the story of a play in which the swiftness of the action 
never halts for an instant. Not only are the situations scream- 
ingly funny but the lines themselves hold a fund of humor at 
all times. This newest and cleverest of all farces was written 
by Fred Jackson, the well-known short-story writer, and i^ 
backed up by the prestige of an impressive New York success 
and the promise of unlimited fun presented in the most attrac- 
tive form. A cleaner, cleverer farce has not been seen for many 
a long day. "A Full House" is a house full of laughs. (Royalty, 
twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents. 

SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, Ne'W York City 
IS0V and SspUcit Descr^tive OaUloguo Mailed Tree on Bequest 



NOT SO LONG AGO 

Comedy in a Prologue, 3 acts, and Epilogue. By Aitliuf 
Eiehman. 5 males, 7 females. 2 interiors, 1 exterior. 
Costumes, 1876. Plays a full evening. 

Arthur Riclinian has constructed his play around the Cinderella 
legend. The playwright has shown great wisdom in his choice 
of material, for he has cleverly crossed the Cinderella theme 
with a strain of Eomeo and Juliet. Mr. Bichman places hia 
young lovers in the picturesque New York of forty years ago. 
This time Cinderella is a seamstress in the home of a sociaL 
climber, who may have teen the first of her kind, though wo 
doubt it. She is interested sentimentally in the son of this house. 
Her father, learning of her infatuation for the young man without 
learning also that it is imaginary on the young girl's part, starts 
out to discover his intentions. He is a poor inventor. The 
mother of the youth, ambitious chiefly for her children, shud- 
ders at the thought of marriage for her son with a sewing-girl. 
But the Prince contrives to put the slipper on the right foot, and 
the end is happiness. The play is quaint and agreeable and the 
three acts are rich in the charm of love and youth. (Royalty, 
twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents. 



THE LOTTERY MAN 

Comedy in 3 acts, by Eida Johnson Young. 4 males, 
6 females. 3 easy interiors. Costumes, modern. Playa 
2% hours. 

In "The Lottery Man" Rida Johnson Young has seized upoa 
a custom of some newspapers to increase their circulation by 
clever schemes. Mrs Young has made the central figure in her 
famous comedy a newspaper reporter, Jack Wright. Wright owes 
his employer money, and he agrees to turn in one of the most 
sensational scoops the paper has e^rer known. His idea is to 
conduct a lottery, with himself as the prize. The lottery is an- 
nounced. Thousands of old maids buy coupons. Meantime Wright 
falls in love with a charming girl. Naturally he fears that he 
may be won by someone else and starts to get as many tickets 
as his limited means will permit. Finally the last day is an- 
nounced. The winning number is 1323, and is held by Lizzie, 
an old maid, in the household of the newspaper owner. Lizzie 
refuses to give up. It is discovered, however, that she has Btolen 
the ticket. With this clue, the reporter threatens her with arrest. 
Of course the coupon is surrendered and Wright gets the girl of 
his choice. Produced at the Bijou Theater, New York, with 
great success. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents. 

SAMTJEL FEENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New York City 
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Reijuest 



POLLYANNA 

"The glad play," in 3 acts. By Catherine Chisholm 
Cushing. Based on the novel by Eleanor H. Porter. 5 
males, 6 females. 2 interiors. Costumes, modern. Plays 
2^ hours. 

The story has to do with the experiences of an orphan girl 
•who is thrust, unwelcome, into the home of a maiden aunt. In 
spite of the tribulations that beset her life she manages to find 
something to be glad about, and brings light into sunless lives. 
Finally, Pollyanna straightens out the love affairs of her elders, 
and last, but not least, finds happiness for herself in the heart 
of Jimmy. "Pollyanna" is a glad play and one vchich is bound 
to give one a better appreciation of people and the world. It 
reflects the humor, tenderness and humanity that gave the story 
such wonderful popularity among young and old. 

Produced at the Hudson Theatre, New York, and for two sea- 
sons on tour, by George 0. Tyler, with Helen Hayes in the part 
of "Pollyanna." (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 



THE CHARM SCHOOL 

'A comedy in 3 acts. By Alice Duer Miller and Eobert 
Milton. 6 males, 10 females (may be playei by 5 males 
and 8 females). Any number of school girls may be used 
in the ensembles. Scenes, 2 interiors. Modern costumes. 
Plays 2% hours, s-i;; 

The story of "The Charm School" is familiar to Mrs. Miller's 
readers. It relates the adventures of a handsome young auto- 
mobile salesman, scarcely out of his 'teens, who, upon inheriting 
a girls* boarding-school from a maiden aunt, insists on running it 
himself, according to his own ideas, chief of which is, by the 
way, that the dominant feature in the education of the young 
girls of to-day should be CHARM. The situations that arise are 
teeming with humor — clean, wholesome humor. In the end the 
young man gives up the school, and promises to wait until the 
most precocious of his pupils reaches a marriageable age. The 
play has the freshness of youth, the inspiration of an extravagant 
but novel idea, the charm of originality, and the promise of whole- 
some, sanely amusing, pleasant entertainment. We strongly rec- 
ommend it for high school production. It was first produced at 
the Bijou Theatre, New York, tken toured the country. Two 
companies are now playing it in England. (Royalty, twenty-five 
dollars.) Price, 75 Cents. 

SAMUEL JTBENCH, 25 West 45tli Street, New York Olty 
New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on BeanesD 



KICK IN 



Play in 4 acts. B7 Willard Mack. 7 males, 5 females. 
2 interiors. Modern costumes. Plays 2^^ hours. 

"Kick In" is the latest of the very few available mystery 
plays. Like "Within the Law," "Seven Keys to Baldpate," 
"The Thirteenth Chair," and "In the Next Room," it is one 
of those thrillers which are accurately described ff,s "not having 
a dull moment in it from beginning to end." It is a play with 
all the ingredients of popularity, not at all difficult to set or to 
«ct; the plot carries it along, and the situations are built with, 
•that skill and knowledge of the theatre for which Willard Mack 
is known. An ideal mystery melodrama, for high schools and 
colleges. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 



TILLY OF BLOOMSBURY 

("Happy-Go-Lueky.") A comedy in 3 acts. By lari 
Hay. 9 males, 7 females. 2 interior scenes. Modem 
dress. Plays a full evening. 

Into an aristocratic family comes Tilly, lovable and youthful, 
with ideas and manners which greatly upset the circle. Tilly 
is so frankly honest that she makes no secret of her tre- 
mendous affection for the young son of the family; this brings her 
into many difficulties. But her troubles have a joyous end in 
charmingly blended scenes of sentiment and humor. This comedy 
presents an opportunity for fine acting, handsome stage settings, 
•nd beautiful costuming. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) 

Price, 75 Cents., 



BILLY 

Parce-eomedy in 3 acts. By George Cameron. 10 malea^ 
5 females. (A few minor male parts can be doubled, mak- 
ing the cast 7 males, 5 females.) 1 exterior. Costumes, 
modern. Plays 2^ hours. 

The action of the play takes place on the S. S. "Florida,'* 
bound for Havana. The story has to do with the disappearance of 
a set of false teeth, which creates endless complications among 
passengers and crew, and furnishes two and a quarter hours of 
4he heartiest laughter. One of the funniest comedies produced in. 
the last dozen years on the American stage is "Billy" (some- 
times called "Billy's Tombstones"), in which the la.te Sidney 
Drew achieved a hit in New York and later toured the country 
several times. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 

SAMUEL FRENCH, 25 West 45th Street, New Tort City 
Kew and BspUcit DesciipUve C^talo^ue SlaUed Tree on Seaaea* 



TWEEDLES 



Comedy in 3 acts, by Booth TarMngton and Hany Leon 
Wilson. 5 males, 4 females. 1 interior. Costumes, modern. 
Plays 2^ hours. 

Julian, scion of the blue-blooded Castleburys, falls in love witll 
Winsora Tweedle, daughter of the oldest family in a Maine village. 
The Tweedles esteem the name because it has been rooted in 
the community for 200 years, and they look down on "summer 
people" with the vigor that only "summer boarder" communities 
know. 

The Castleburys are aghast at the possibility of a match, and 
tall on the Tweedles to urge how impossible such an alliance would 
be. Mr. Castlebury laboriously explains the barrier of social 
caste, and the elder Tweedle takes it that these unimportant 
eummer folk are terrified at the social eminence of the Tweedles. 

Tweedle generously agrees to co-operate with the Castleburys 
to prevent the match. But Winsora brings her father to realize 
that in reality the Castleburys look upon them as inferiors. The 
old man is infuriated, and threatens vengeance, but is checkmated 
when Julian unearths a number of family skeletons and argues 
that father isn't a Tweedle, since the blood has been so diluted 
that little remains. Also, Winsora takes the matter into her own 
hands and outfaces the old man. So the youngsters go forth 
triumphant. "Tweedles" is Booth Tarkington at his best. 
(Boyalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 



JUST SUPPOSE 

A whimsieal comedy in 3 acts, by A. E. Thomas, author 
of "Her Husband's Wife," "Come Out of the Kitchen," 
etc. 6 males, 2 females. 1 interior, 1 exterior. Costumes, 
modern. Plays 2% hours. 

It was rumored that during his last visit the Prince of Wales 
appeared for a brief spell under an assumed name somewhere in 
Virginia. It is on this story that A. E. Thomas based "Just 
Suppose." The theme is handled in an original manner. Linda 
Lee Stafford meets one George Shipley (in reality is the Prince 
of Wales). It is a case of love at first sight, but, alas, princes 
cannot select their mates and thereby hangs a tale which Mr, 
Thomas has woven with infinite charm. The atmosphere of the 
South with its chivalry dominates the story, touching in its 
fientiment and lightened here and there with delightful comedy. 
"Just Suppose" scored a big hit at the Henry Miller Theatre, 
New York, with Patricia Collinge. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) 

Price, 75 Cents. 

SAMUEL rEENCH, 25 West 45tli Street, New York City 
Kav and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Tiea on Beqaea^ 



i-RBJL'27 



ARE YOU A MASON? 

Farce in 3 acts. By Leo Ditrichstein. 7 males, 7 fe- 
males. Modern costumes. Plays 2^ hours. 1 interior. 

"Are You a Mason?" is one of those delightful farces like 
"Charley's Aunt" that are always fresh. "A mother and a 
daughter," says the critic of the New York Herald, "had hus- 
bands who account for absences from the joint household on 
frequent evenings, falsely pretending to be Masons. The men 
do not know each other's duplicity, and each tells his wife of 
having advanced to leadership in his lodge. The older woman 
•was 60 well pleased with her husband's supposed distinction in 
the order that she made him promise to put up the name of a 
visiting friend for membership. Turther perplexity over the 
principal liar arose when a suitor for his second daughter's' hand 
proved to be a real Mason. , . . To tell the story of the play 
would require volumes, its complications are so numerous. It is 
a house of cards. One card wrongly placed and the whole thing 
would collapse. But it stands, an example of remarkable in- 
genuity. You wonder at the end of the first act how the fun 
can be kept up on such a slender foundation. But it continues 
and grows to the last curtain." One of the most hilariously 
amusing farces ever written, especially suited to schools and. 
Masonic Lodges. (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 



KEMPY 

'A delightful comedy in 3 acts. By J". C. Nugent and 
Elliott Nugent. 4 males, 4 females. 1 interior throughout. 
Costumes, modern. Plays 2^4 hours. 

No wonder "Kempy" has been such a tremendous hit in Ne^^ 
York, Chicago — ^wherever it has played. It snaps with wit and 
humor of the most delightful kind. It's electric. It's small- 
town folk perfectly pictured. Full of types of varied sorts, each 
one done to a turn and served with zestful sauce. An ideal 
entertainment for amusement purposes. The story is about a high- 
falutin' daughter who in a fit of pique marries the young plumber- 
architect, who comes to fix the water pipes, just because ha 
"understands" her, having read her book and having sworn to 
marry the authoress. But in that story lies all the humor that 
kept the audience laughing every second of every act. Of course 
there are lots of ramifications, each of which bears its own brand 
of laughter-making potentials. But the plot and the story are 
not the main things. There is, for instance, the work of the 
company. The fun growing out of this family mixup is lively and 
clean, (Royalty, twenty-five dollars.) Price, 75 Cents, 

SAMUEL FBENCH, 26 West 45tli Street, New York Olty 
VTew and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request 



y 



FRENCH'S 

Standard Library Edition 



Clyde Fitch 

William Gillette 

Augustus Thomas 

George Broadhurst 

Edward E. Kidder 

Percy MacKaye 

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 

Louis N. Parker 

R. C. Carton 

Alfred Sutro 

Richard Harding Davis 

Sir Arthur W. Pinero 

Anthony Hope 

Oscar Wilde 

Haddon Cham^bers 

Jerome K. Jerome 

Cosmo Gordon Lennox 

H. V. Esmond 

Mark Swan 

Grace L. Fumiss 

Marguerite Merrington 

Hermann Sudermann 

Rida Johnson Young 

Arthur Law 

Rachel Crothers 

Martha Morton 

H. A. Du Souchet 

W. W. Jacobs 

Madeleine Lucette Ryley 



Includes Pla5rs by 

Booth Tarkington 
J. Hartley Manners 
James Forbes 
James Montgomery 
Wm. C. de Mille 
Roi Cooper Megrue 
Edward E. Rose 
Israel Zangwill 
Henry Bernstein 
Harold Brighouse 
Channing Pollock 
Harry Durant 
Winchell Smith 
Margaret Mayo 
Edward Peple 
A. E. W. Mason 
Charles Klein 
Henry Arthur Jones 
A. E. Thomas 
Fred. Ballard 
C3rril Harcourt 
Carlisle Moore 
Ernest Denny 
Laurence Housman 
Harry James Smith 
Edgar Selw3m 
Augustin McHugh 
Robert Housiun 
Charles Kcnyon 
C. M. S. McLellan 



French's International Copyrighted Edition con- 
tains plays, comedies and farces of international 
reputation; also recent professional successes by 
famous American and English Authors. 
Send a four-cent stamp for our new catalogue 
describing thousands of plays. 

SAMUEL FRENCH 

Oldest Play Publisher in the World 
25 West 4JSth Street, NEW YORK CITY 



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